


to kill the mess we've made

by missandrogyny



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Content, basically harry and louis are models and that's all you need to know, because harry is dramatic, it's a teensy bit sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And when he's finally standing, Liam fussing over him, rubbing his hand at the red mark blooming on Harry's forehead, does Harry learn two things:</p><p>One, he wasn't actually hit that hard, and Tommo--or Louis, rather--is just as pretty when Harry is staring at him head-on and,</p><p>Two, Louis is the Adidas model he's going to be working with on today's photo shoot.</p><p>(or: AU where Harry and Louis are both models, and they decide being friends-with-benefits is a great idea. It isn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	to kill the mess we've made

**Author's Note:**

  * For [britishhusbands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishhusbands/gifts).



> this is a gift for the wonderful, wonderful [princess](http://britishhusbands.tumblr.com)! her birthday was in march L M A O 
> 
> uhh princess, happy 20-and-5-months birthday!!! (it's not your half birthday, but it's your 5/12th birthday which means i win the bet!!!!) i hope you like this fic, which was borne from the prompt you gave me. um, if you hate it...it's the thought that counts? idk man i tried
> 
> just a disclaimer, most of the stuff about photo shoots come from my experience working on them, which isn't very extensive, and some research, so if it's inaccurate i'm sorry

 The first time Harry sees Louis, Louis throws a shoe at him.

...Well actually, that's not quite true. He throws a shoe at his _handler_ , who's standing right beside Harry, but due to faulty aiming and Harry's sheer luck when it comes to flying objects (meaning he has none at all), it ends up hitting Harry straight in the face, making him stumble back a few steps and fall to the ground.

He hears a bit of commotion, a raspy voice shouting, "Oh shit!", and the next thing he knows, there's a hand in his hair and another one on his face.

"Are you okay?" the voice asks, and Harry does nothing but blink up at the man holding his face. Because, fuck. It's either he was hit _way_ too hard that he's now seeing things, or that this man cradling his head is an _angel_. Like a literal, sent-down-from-heaven angel, complete with the heavenly glow and the little halo on his head. And maybe he has wings. It'd be great if he had wings.

Harry cranes his head a bit, hoping to spot a few feathers sprouting from his back. He's a bit disappointed when he doesn't spot any, but it doesn't matter. Maybe he'll be a Victoria's Secret angel one day. He'd probably look so good in lingerie and a pair of intricately-crafted wings.

And really, Harry shouldn't be thinking such thoughts about a person whose name he doesn't even know.

"Mate," he hears another voice, one with a distinct Irish accent. Probably the handler. "How hard did you hit him?"

"I don't know," comes the angel's voice, sounding worried. "I didn't think it was _that_ hard until he fell over. Fuck, what if he's dead? Curly, are you still with us?"

God, even his _eyes_ are pretty. They're blue, but they're not _just_ blue--they look like they're made up of swirls of the prettiest green and blue paint from the art store. Kind of like Van Gogh's Starry Night, if it were made up of green and blue swirls.

"Niall, I think I've killed him," says the angel worriedly. He lifts Harry's head off the floor so that he's cradling it on his lap, still worriedly running a hand through Harry's hair. One of his hands rub at Harry's forehead, where the shoe hit him, and, okay, Harry should really move, show the angel that he's actually fine, but the boy is just so pretty. So, so pretty and Harry is actually _lying_ on his lap and man, this is the life.

"Nah," the other voice--Niall, Harry assumes--replies. "I think he's fine, Tommo. His eyes are still open, look."

"But people can have their eyes open and be dead," wails the angel. Or Tommo, according to this Niall person. "Fuck, oh no, this is bad. This is like an episode of _How to Get Away With Murder_. My life is going to get _so_ fucked up. And I don't even have an Annalise Keating to help me. Instead, I have _you_."

"Hey," Niall protests. Harry tries to turn to look at him, he does, but tearing his eyes away from Tommo take more effort than he thought. _So_ much more effort. "I'd be helpful in a crisis."

"Then fucking _help_ me," Tommo hisses back.

God, his eyelashes are so long. They're so long that they cast shadows on his high cheekbones, and Harry really wants to touch it.

So he does.

He reaches up, poking at Tommo's eyelashes with a finger. Tommo blinks at his finger, going a bit cross-eyed, and, okay, he's the probably the cutest heavenly being to ever exist. And the prettiest. The cutest and the prettiest. Sorry, Harry doesn't make the rules.

There's a moment where Harry's just poking his eyelashes repeatedly, marvelling at their length and at how they tickle the pad of his finger. Tommo and Niall don't say anything, don't even _move_ while Harry prods at Louis' eyelashes. They're just so long and so pretty, like the rest of him, and Harry has always been so weak for pretty things.

And then carefully, Tommo hedges, "Curly...?"

"Pretty," Harry replies mindlessly, his finger trailing down the slope of his nose now.

It's silent for a few seconds.

"Niall," Tommo says gravely. He grabs at Harry's finger, pulling it away and Harry pouts, trying to wriggle it in Tommo's hand. He just wants to touch Tommo, see. "I think he's concussed."

Niall snorts in reply.

. . .

It turns out, Harry is not concussed. Not even the slightest bit. In fact he is deemed perfectly fine by Liam, who comes in shouting about how Harry entered the wrong dressing room _again_ , takes one look at him on the ground and pulls him into a standing position. He doesn't even take vertigo into consideration, or the fact that Harry could've been incredibly hurt. He wasn't, but _he could have been_. Flying shoes are a very dangerous thing.

And when he's finally standing, Liam fussing over him, rubbing his hand at the red mark blooming on Harry's forehead, does Harry learn two things:

One, he wasn't actually hit _that_ hard, and Tommo--or Louis, rather--is just as pretty when Harry is staring at him head-on and,

Two, Louis is the Adidas model he's going to be working with on today's photo shoot.

Because right, that's why he's here. Apparently Calvin Klein and Adidas decided to collaborate, releasing a line of 'sports underwear' that is supposed to be 'revolutionary', and since Harry is the current face of Calvin Klein, and Louis is the current face of Adidas, they're going to have to appear on the editorials together. Which means make-up and photo shoots and posing together in nothing but their underwear. Sorry, in their _sports_ underwear.

"I can't _believe_ you didn't tell me he looked like that," Harry complains to Liam, when they're in Harry's dressing room and Harry is standing in nothing but his sports underwear. He's all ready to go--his hair's already properly styled, his make-up all done--but he's still hiding out in the dressing room, berating Liam. Harry's still a bit embarrassed by how overwhelmed he was by Louis. He had ended up apologizing about twenty times, Louis laughing all of them off and apologizing for hitting him too. "I can't believe you didn't _warn_ me."

"Harry," Liam says exasperatedly. "I told you who you'd be working with months ago. Not my fault you didn't google him, or whatever."

"But you should've provided pictures!" Harry wails, stomping his foot. He crosses his arms, flexing his biceps, trying to make himself look bigger. More intimidating. These muscles aren't just for the editorials, after all. "That's your job!"

"I did provide pictures," Liam replies, rolling his eyes, completely unaffected by Harry's stance. "Louis' adverts were inside the brown folder I gave you, together with the _other_ brown folder that contained the contract and everything."

Harry furrows his brow, thinking. He doesn't remember another brown folder, aside from the one containing the contract. Maybe Liam's making shit up. He does that sometimes. Or, actually once. During April Fool's day.

Nevertheless, it's plausible. Liam could be messing with him again, pretending to have been more thorough than he actually was when he was booking Harry this gig. He's so good at his job, sometimes, that him forgetting something or making a mistake seems highly unlikely, almost improbable. It's more probable that Liam's just fucking with him, and that brown folder doesn't even _exist_.

Harry's about to tell him this, call him out on his bullshit, until he remembers. Oh. _That_ brown folder. The one that Harry had peeked into for like five seconds, shrugged, and tossed onto his messy desk.

Honestly, Harry hates Liam so much. Sure, without Liam, Harry probably wouldn't have gotten half the gigs and fashion shows he's been booked for, but the thing is, Liam is so good at his job that Harry can't ever blame him for anything. Which isn't fair. Liam deserves to be blamed for things too. Like booking him on a photo shoot with Louis Tomlinson, the prettiest man Harry's seen in a long while. He deserves a hundred percent of the blame for how Harry acted.

"...Okay, fine," Harry allows, narrowing his eyes at Liam. "You may have gotten away with it this time, but don't even _think_ you can keep doing that. I am _on to you_ , Liam Payne, and one day, I will catch you, I swear it."

"What are you even talking about?" Liam asks, confused. " _What_ have I gotten away with?" He pauses. "You know what, never mind, it doesn't matter. You need to go to the studio now."

"But Liam," Harry whines. He doesn't think he's ready, yet."I need more time."

"No 'buts'," Liam tutts, shepherding him out the door. Harry tries to be stubborn, digging his heels in, but Liam is strong and knows exactly how to push so that Harry moves, despite his unwillingness to. "Stop being a whiney baby, Harry, or else I'll call Anne."

"Fine," Harry replies, pushing back at Liam. "Call her. I'd _love_ to speak to her."

"I'll call her and tell her all about how you've finally got a crush." Liam threatens.

Harry gasps, whirling around to face him. "You wouldn't dare."

See, Harry loves his mum a whole lot, to the point that no words in the English language can ever accurately convey that, but she's just so invested in his life. Or, more specifically, his _love_ life. She keeps calling and asking if Harry's found 'someone nice to settle down with yet', and he knows she means well, but it gets kind of annoying. And kind of tiring to explain to her for the hundredth time that he's currently _not_ looking for a relationship.

Harry fully blames Gemma for actually going and getting married.

Liam raises a an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Try me."

Harry searches Liam's face for any sign that he's lying, but Liam is straight-faced, stern. Eventually Harry sighs, relents, and reluctantly makes his way to the studio area, grumbling all the while.

"I don't even know what sports underwear _is_ ," Harry grumbles loudly, partly for Liam to hear, and partly because he's still confused. They've reached the studio now, and Harry and Liam hang back, watching the photographer take test shots. "How's it different from normal underwear?"

"It's supposed to be more pliant," Liam replies monotonously. He's brought out his phone, scrolling through his to-do list. "Like, stretchier. Better for sporting events and stuff."

"But normal underwear works fine," Harry replies, confused. "I don't even know why we need even stretchier underwear." He looks down at himself and pouts. "Besides, it doesn't even look good on me."

Well, sort of. It fits Harry perfectly in the front, emphasizing the size of his cock without making it bulge out obscenely. It also hugs his legs nicely, making his legs look longer and more muscular than they actually are, which is good. Excellent, even.

No, the problem is the rear.

Sadly, Harry doesn't have enough arse to fill it out, so the result is a slightly loose, slightly baggy backside that seems to be a metaphor. For Harry's life, maybe. Like he's got the arse, but sadly it isn't enough to satisfy, or something like that.

And he could have gotten a size smaller, but then that would mean his cock would be bulging through the fabric so obscenely that the photo shoot would look less artistic and more pornographic. So Harry has to live with a saggy-looking arse, even though his arse is cute and perky and not-at-all saggy, thank you very much.

"It looks fine," Liam dismisses, still not looking up from where he's fixing Harry's schedule for the next week.

"You're not even looking at me," Harry complains mildly.

Liam sighs, then looks up, straight into Harry's eyes. "It looks fine," Liam repeats earnestly. He looks like a puppy. Harry has the strong urge to just pet him on the head.

He resists. "Great," Harry says, raising his eyebrows. "But you didn't even look at my arse."

Liam rolls his eyes. "Is this really necessary?"

"Look at my bum, Liam Payne," Harry orders, turning around so Liam can see his arse. He bends over and shakes it for emphasis. "Come on, Liam. Look at my bum, and tell me it looks great."

He hears Liam sigh again, long-suffering, before beginning to wax poetic about Harry's arse and he bites his lip to keep from laughing. From the corner of his eye, he sees Louis emerge from the dressing room, his hair in a nice little swirl on his forehead, his make-up done perfectly. He's wearing the same thing as Harry, and Harry lets his eyes trail down Louis' sparse chest hair, to his defined obliques. Gosh, he's still so pretty. Harry could honestly just sit and, kind of like, admire what he's like.

And then he turns around to tell Niall something and Harry's jaw drops.

"Oh my _God_ , Liam," he says, straightening up, interrupting Liam's words about how Harry's arse is tiny and cute and perfect just the way it is. "Look at his _bum._ "

Because what Harry lacks, Louis makes up for in spades. He fills out the underwear nicely, the fabric stretching properly over his bum, making it actually look gorgeous. There's no excess fabric or saggy folds or whatever. Instead it fits him perfectly, like second skin.

Fuck, but even his bum is pretty. Harry kind of wants to cry.

"Hm," He hears Liam hum, from behind him. "Well, he certainly wears it better than you do."

"I told you," Harry says, deflating a bit. "And _I'm_ supposed to be the underwear model."

. . .

It isn't long until the shoot actually starts, and Harry finds himself posing in front of the camera, looking moodily at the distance with Louis doing the same thing on his left. Underwear shoots don't really require elaborate poses and faces, so it's not as hard as some of the other shoots Harry has done, but he still finds himself sweating, the lights beating hotly down on him. Lou keeps coming over to dust his face with powder and fix his hair, from where his curls have started to droop because of the heat.

And the sweat and the make-up retouches and the fixing of hair is all part of his job, he knows, but he can't help but feel a bit frustrated. Because it's been an hour of pictures and poses and staring moodily at the distance, and the photographer, Girolle, doesn't seem to have gotten a single decent shot at all. He's starting to glare at Harry and Louis, as if he believes they're single-handedly ruining his career.

Which, they aren't. He's doing that just fine himself. Harry isn't even a professional photographer, but even he knows the photographer's idea is shit. There's absolutely no way he's going to be able to pull of taking joint photos of Harry and Louis in only their underwear and make them look like two manly men hanging out and watching football from a distance. The underwear aspect of it already cancels it out.

"Can I just comment," Louis says, raising his hand after another set of photos has been taken and Girolle has started to look like he's about to break down in tears. "I don't think this entire thing is working."

Girolle sighs. "I know," he says in his heavy French accent. "The composition of the photo is so boring. It doesn't work. _You_ two don't work. No chemistry at all."

"I beg to differ," Louis argues, crossing his arms. "You're just not utilizing us properly. If I may...?" He gestures to himself and Harry, and it takes a second for Harry to realize that he's asking for permission to direct the shoot.

Girolle looks at him, perplexed for a few minutes, before looking down at his camera and sighing. "Fine," he says, waving his hands at them. "Just, do what you want."

Harry watches as Louis smiles smugly at Girolle, before turning to face Harry. He cocks his head. "You're not straight, are you?"

Straight. Ha. The only thing straight in Harry are his eyelashes, and even that is debatable, considering that sometimes they curl up on the end.

He quickly shakes his head, shooting Louis a cheeky grin. "As straight as my hair," he quips, and giggles when Louis rolls his eyes.

"Alright," Louis replies. The corner of his lips twitches up in a smile. "I'm gayer than a rainbow, just so we're on the same page."

Harry raises an eyebrow. He had his suspicions, of course he did, but it's nice to have confirmation. Means that he knows where they stand. "Is this necessary for something?"

"Yep," Louis answers, popping the 'p'. "This information is crucial for what I'm planning to do."

"Oh," Harry says, intrigued. "What _are_ you planning to do?"

"Not telling," Louis says, winking at him. "But it's not that hard, I promise. You just have to do what I say."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you were into that."

"I'm into a lot of things, Harold," Louis answers, waving a hand breezily, catching Harry off-guard. That's....interesting. Suddenly Harry wants to know what, exactly, Louis is into, and whether it aligns with Harry's own, ahem, interests.

But there's a time and place. And in front of the photographer and the production staff is probably _not_ the time and place.

 "Now," Louis continues, oblivious to Harry's thoughts. "Are you in or not?"

Harry looks at the production staff, who are looking at them curiously, obviously intrigued by the turn of events. He looks at Girolle, who's staring dejectedly at the pictures in his camera, like they've actually come alive and murdered his entire family. Seriously, he looks _that_ sad.

He shrugs. "Sure, why not," he says, turning to face Louis. "Only for Girolle though, `cause he looks like he's about to cry."

"He's a bit dramatic," Louis dismisses, then raises his voice a bit. "Oi, Girolle, am I in the centre of the frame?"

There's a few seconds of silence, as Girolle fiddles with the camera, angling it the way he wants it. "Take a tiny step forward," he says finally, and Louis does as he's told.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, taking in his position, before turning to face Harry. He squints at him, studying, contemplating, before he says, "come here."

"What?" Harry asks, thrown off-guard.

"Come here," Louis repeats, and it sounds like an order. He crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow.

And Harry takes a few seconds to think about it, to think about not obeying Louis, and thinks, _whatever_.

He takes three steps forward, until he's standing in front of Louis, an arms-length away. From here, he suddenly realizes how much smaller Louis is; he has to be around two, three inches shorter than Harry, enough that Harry has to duck down slightly to meet his eye.

Louis must realize the same thing as Harry, because he grumbles, "Christ, you're bloody tall." Harry bites his lip to keep from laughing--he doesn't think Louis would appreciate Harry laughing at his height.

Louis takes another minute to study how close they are, and Harry uses the opportunity to study him right back, to fully look at Louis from head to toe. He lets his eyes trace Louis' skin, almost caramel in colour, lets his eyes linger on the set of his shoulders and on the tattoo of a stag on his bicep. God, but he's so pretty. So, so pretty.

And then Louis is looking up, pinning Harry with a bright blue gaze.

"Closer."

Harry furrows his brow, but obeys, taking a miniscule step forward. His toes brush against Louis', and it's stupid, but Harry can swear he feels something zip up his spine. It's a bit pathetic, he knows, considering it's just their feet touching, but then again it's skin-on-skin contact, it's touch after hours and hours of posing around each other in only their underwear.

 Their faces are close, close enough that Harry can feel Louis breathe, can feel him exhale against Harry's lips. Harry holds his breath, tries not to shiver as the air bounces on his lips, leaving hypothetical kisses in its wake.

Louis rolls his eyes, evidently not pleased. "Now, what part of closer do you not understand?"

"But--"

" _Closer_ , Harry."

Harry frowns  at him, confused, but Louis looks resolute, sure. Confident, like he knows what he's doing, like he knows something Harry doesn't, and is just waiting for Harry to catch up.

 So Harry shrugs and does as Louis says. He moves closer , and closer and closer, until their chests are touching, until the contact has extended from feet to chest and Harry has to curl his hands into fists to stop from reaching out and brushing his fingertips against Louis' skin. Until Harry is practically looming over Louis, who's looking up at Harry with a challenge in his eyes.

Louis grins roguishly. "Good." He reaches out slowly, uncurling it gently, running his smaller hand over Harry's palm lightly, before setting it on his lower back, just above the curve of his arse. He keeps his hand there, on top of Harry's for a few seconds, an unspoken order not to move it, before he's letting go, pulling his hand away.

And suddenly, Harry just gets it. Gets what Louis is trying to do. What he's trying to achieve, and fuck.

 _Fuck_ , but that's genius.

It must show on his face, because Louis is batting his eyelashes innocently at him, a smug smile on his lips. He winds his hands around Harry's neck with no hesitation whatever, tangling his fingers on the hair at the base of Harry's neck, before leaning back,  trusting Harry to hold his weight.

And Harry does. He pulls Louis closer and closer to him, until their hips are touching, and _this_ , this is the contact Harry wants. This is the contact Harry has wanted ever since Louis hit him on the head with a shoe.

Harry can feel Louis' cock right on his, separated by two layers of flimsy cloth, and he can't help but get aroused at that thought. He wants to thrust forward, wants to grind against Louis a little bit, wants to feel a bit of friction on his cock. Wants to rub against him here, with the lights beating down his back, making everything seem brighter. Hotter.

His cock's already stirring, and Harry bites his lip, thrusts forward slowly. Just a little bit, just for a little bit of friction.

He gets about three thrusts in before Louis is pulling his hair, hard, making Harry raise his head. Harry stifles a moan, thinks, _again_ , and fuck common decency, fuck time and place, if Louis would let him, Harry would have him right here, right now.

"Focus," is all Louis says, when Harry meets his eye. His voice is low, authoritative--obviously an order, going by the way he grips Harry's hair tighter.

But he doesn't move away, doesn't even try to put a bit of space in between them. If anything, he stays perfectly still, letting Harry handle his weight.

And Harry might be imagining it, but the blue in Louis' eyes seems darker, seems less like the sky and more like the depths of the ocean. Might also be imagining the way Louis is breathing, a bit laboured and a whole lot affected, might also be imagining the way his cock also seems to be stirring in his own underwear. Might also be imagining the way he bites his lip and grinds forward slowly, deliberately to meet Harry's thrust.

Maybe. It's possible.

He takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart, places his free hand on the middle of Louis' back. He pulls Louis up slowly, until their chests are touching, until Harry can feel Louis breathe.

He tries to match his breathing to Louis'. "Genius," he breathes out, his hand tightening its grip on Louis' lower back. Louis simply looks at him, his blue eyes hooded, his mouth curved upwards in a tiny smile. Harry licks his lips and watches as Louis' eyes dart down to follow the movement. "Absolutely genius."

Louis' smile grows. "I try." He tilts his head back, exposing the unmarked, caramel skin of his neck. It's obviously covered in foundation and powder, but Harry's mouth still waters at the sight. He wants to kiss it, bite at it, mark it up so that everyone knows he was there. 

He can't do that right now, but, maybe, he can have a little taste. He leans forward, bending Louis backwards a bit, closes his eyes, before pressing his lips on the skin of Louis' throat. He bites at it gently, ignoring the taste of the foundation, and Louis' breath hitches, his hands gripping tighter at Harry's hair.

"Don't," Louis says softly, even as he tilts his head further, giving Harry more access. "Don't you _dare_ , Harry Styles."

Harry smiles into his skin, pressing a light kiss on the same spot. He hears Louis moan quietly, and that emboldens him, makes him brave enough to press his lips against Louis' skin harder, to lick lightly at Louis' neck, tasting foundation and sweat and something that must be Louis' skin.

What a picture they must make. It's incredibly homoerotic, almost borderline obscene for a Calvin Klein shoot, much less an Adidas shoot, but it's unheard of and revolutionary, and Harry just _knows_ that this will be absolutely brilliant.

Almost as if on cue, Harry hears the flash go off. He doesn't open his eyes to look, just focuses on staying incredibly still, supporting Louis' weight. His cock doesn't even go down, instead, it seems to harden even more as Girolle takes pictures.

Louis' grip in his hair shifts, one of his hands untangling from the hair on the base of Harry's neck to the curls on the top of his head. He, too, stays still, letting Harry support his weight, like a stationary game of trust fall.

It's a while until Girolle stops taking pictures, but when he does, immediately, Louis rights himself and pulls away. He looks flushed, slightly debauched, and that, that was barely _anything_. That was just close proximity and a kiss on the neck.

What would he look like, Harry wonders, if they actually went and did something more?

Harry feels his cock perk up even more at that thought, and he reaches down to subtly adjust himself. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to ignore his half-hard cock. "So?" he asks, before turning to face the staff.

The production staff are all staring at them, making Harry blush and look down at his feet. By the side, he can see Liam staring at him, his mouth open, all of the papers he was probably studying scattered on the floor by his feet. Beside him, Niall looks teary, like a proud mother, and is unsubtly giving Louis a thumbs up.

Girolle, though. Girolle is grinning, brandishing his camera like a trophy, one of the photos he took displayed on the view finder. He doesn't say anything, simply thrusting the camera into Harry's hand, and Harry gasps in surprise.

The photo is _stunning_. The shadows, the light, the composition of the photo--it's a work of art, and Harry cannot believe it actually turned out like this. Beside him, Louis exhales in surprise, before leaning closer to get a better look at the photo.

It looks so intimate, so _real_. Louis does look like he's lost in a haze of ecstasy and arousal; like it was truly something private between him and Harry, something that a hidden camera was able to capture. His eyes are closed, his mouth slack, shiny. And the way he's bent over to accommodate Harry is truly something else--it's graceful, making him look light as air.

And he has to admit he looks good, too. The muscles on his left arm are flexed, and Harry  knows it was obviously to support Louis' weight, but it translates so well on the picture. It makes him look possessive, makes him look like he's _claiming_ Louis for himself, which is reinforced by how his brow is furrowed as he presses his lips against Louis' throat. He's bent over rather nicely, as well, which makes the underwear stretch properly over his arse, eliminating the saggy, extra cloth that didn't fit Harry initially.

The entire thing is gorgeous and hot, and they did well. _Louis_ did well. There's absolutely no doubt that both Calvin Klein and Adidas will adore this campaign shoot. Harry feels a surge of pride for him.

" _Merci_ ," Girolle tells them, when Harry hands the camera back over. He still looks like he's about to burst into tears, but this time, from happiness. " _Merci beaucoup_ , _Monsieur_ Tomlinson. Have you got any other ideas?"

Louis shrugs and turns to him. "Harold, up for it?"

Harry grins. "I'm up for it."

. . .

It's fun. Louis, after having won the approval of Girolle and the production staff,  had ended up being appointed their temporary shoot director. He then proceeded to put Harry in a million different poses, some of them simple, some of them much more complex, but most, if not all of them, homoerotic. At one point, he'd told Harry to push him up against the wall, made him slot a thigh between Louis' legs. Harry won't ever forget the way Louis' eyes went hazy when Harry pressed his thigh a little too hard against Louis' semi.

He won't ever forget the way Louis looked on top of him, either, when they were lying on top of a cream-coloured couch. Louis had borrowed Girolle's necktie and had loped it around his neck, telling Harry to pull at it, to pull him closer, an order Harry was all-too happy to comply with. Louis hadn't minded, though, judging by the way Louis smirked and pressed him further into the couch, their cocks grazing against each other through the flimsy fabric, their mouths a breath away from touching, from pressing against each other.

And God, did Harry want to kiss him. To press his mouth against Louis', to feel Louis' lips between his own. He wanted to bite at Louis' lower lip, wanted to leave his mark, wanted to kiss him until Louis is panting, until Louis' mouth is red, swollen from Harry's kisses.

At one point, there had been poster paint involved, and the result was an absolute mess. Louis and Harry painted each other, smeared yellow and green and orange and blue and red all over each other's arms and torsos, laughing and flirting like two teenagers. They had both ended up looking like rainbow-coloured monstrosities, but it hadn't mattered at all, not when Louis pulled him down, closer to him, cradled his jaw, and brushed his nose against Harry's, his mouth an inch away.

"You know," Harry had murmured then, his eyes hooded, staring unabashedly at Louis' lips as Girolle took pictures, "the foreplay is getting quite old now, don't you think?"

"Is it?" Louis had shot back, and Harry could hear his mouth curve up in a smirk. "I'm having fun."

Harry had shrugged in response, gripping Louis' hips tighter. "I don't know," he'd replied. "We could make it a bit more fun."

And perhaps that's why, after hours of photos and poses and hands where they _really_ shouldn't be, after hours of sharing breath and laughing and smearing paint on each other, Harry finds himself back in Louis' dressing room, but this time with Louis' dick in his mouth.

Oops.

From above him, Louis moans, his hips shifting forward. He's got his hands in fists in Harry's hair, and he pulls at it, making Harry moan. That, in turn, makes Louis' hips buck forward, makes him thrust into Harry's mouth until his cock hits the back of Harry's throat.

Harry splutters a bit--it's been a while--but he doesn't pull off; instead he tries his best to run his tongue on the underside of Louis' cock. Louis swears, litanies of 'fucks' and 'shits' falling from his mouth as he yanks at Harry's hair, his back arching off the door in an attempt to get closer.

It's hot, _so_ hot, how Louis is so affected that Harry has to sneak a hand into his own briefs and squeeze the base of his cock, so as not to come from this alone. He uses his free hand to push Louis' hips against the door, an unspoken order to stay still, and then he's pulling off, to suckle at the head.

"Fuck," Louis exhales, as Harry tongues his slit. Beneath his hand, he can feel Louis' muscles quivering with the effort not to push back into Harry's mouth. "You're good at this."

Harry pulls off with a pop. "I'm good at a lot of things," he tells Louis, and quietly preens when Louis reacts to the sound of Harry's voice, raspy and very obviously ruined.

He takes a moment to observe Louis, to observe the way his eyes are squeezed shut, the way his chest is heaving, sweat dripping in rivulets on his skin. God, he's gorgeous, even like this--even while he's utterly debauched, even while his skin is flushed red, looking almost hot to the touch, even while his hair's all messed  up and his lips are swollen from biting at it.

Louis' eyes slowly open, and Harry watches as they dart around, dark and dazed, before focusing on Harry on his knees before him. Louis exhales loudly at the sight, one of his hands pulling off from Harry's hair and squeezing at his own cock.

"What are we doing?" He asks, trying to sound unaffected--a useless feat, seeing as Harry can hear the desperation on his tone.

Harry shrugs. "I don't know what you're doing," he says, mimicking Louis' tone. Two can play at that game. " _I'm_ just admiring the view."

Louis pulls at Harry's hair once, sharply, and Harry has to bite at his bottom lip to keep from moaning. Fuck, he loves having his hair pulled."Oh?"

"Yeah," Harry replies, when manages to get himself together. His cock is throbbing painfully in his underwear, and he squeezes the base of his cock with his hand again. He can't come, not before Louis. It would be embarrassing if he did.

"`s a great view," he adds, when Louis doesn't say anything. He smirks up at Louis, leaning forward again to blow at the head of Louis' cock. "Gorgeous, even. My parents always told me to take time and admire gorgeous views."

Louis shivers. "What are you even _talking_ about?" 

"Nothing," Harry answers cheekily. "You should fuck my mouth."

He doesn't give Louis a chance to speak anymore, instead taking the head of Louis' cock into his mouth once more. He laves at the head, tongues at the slit, before sinking down halfway, humming, trying to tell Louis to do the rest.

And Louis does.

He slams his hips forward, thrusting into Harry's mouth with abandon, until Louis' cock hits the back of his throat. Harry moans at the sensation, and Louis echoes it, the sound of it going to Harry's already painful cock. God, the sounds he makes are _so_ pretty. Just up to par with the rest of him.

One of his hands untangles itself from Harry's curls, drifting down to cradle at Harry's jaw. Louis holds him still with one hand, fucks into his mouth desperately, like a dying man, and it's so fucking hot, the way Harry can do nothing but take it, can do nothing but hollow his cheeks and try to stave off his own impending orgasm. This is probably the best sex he's ever had in his twenty-two years of existence, and it's just a fucking blow job. None of the people he's been with ever fucked like this. He doubts anyone in the future will.

Harry can tell when Louis' about to come, because his thrusts get more erratic, his (so very pretty) moans have gotten higher and louder. Harry hums, around his cock, decides to help him out. Decides to use his free hand to play with Louis' balls, decides to drift it down lower, and lower, brushing one dry finger on the entrance of Louis' rim.

The reaction, then, is instantaneous. Louis thrusts harshly into Harry's mouth and comes, spilling down Harry's throat. Harry swallows it all, holds Louis in his mouth throughout his orgasm. Louis goes boneless; his knees buckling, and he just barely catches himself with his free hand, the other still tangled in Harry's curls.

it's a few moments until Louis pulls him off his cock with the hand that's still in Harry's hair. Harry watches as Louis inhales deeply, obviously trying to catch his breath. Then he takes one look at Harry, still kneeling on the floor, his cock still tenting the fabric of his underwear.

"Get up here," he says, and Harry doesn't need to be told twice.

He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees, letting Louis manhandle him and crowd him against the wall. Louis places one hand beside his head, effectively pinning him, and leans closer, until Harry can feel Louis' lips ghost against his, until Harry goes cross-eyed trying to keep looking at him.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Harry blurts out. He wouldn't be opposed to it.

He doesn't see Louis' lips curve up in a smile, but he can tell they do. "No."

One of his hands drift lower, pushing Harry's underwear down, until his cock springs free. Harry shivers as the cold air hits it, gasps when Louis wraps a dry hand around it.

"I don't kiss my hook-ups," Louis continues airily, using his thumb to gather the pre-come at the tip and slick up Harry's shaft. He moves his hand slowly up and down Harry's cock, and Harry moans quietly, fucks up into the heat of Louis' fist. He's so hard, he's probably not going to last long. "It's my rule."

"Okay," Harry gasps. He reaches back, placing his hands against the door, trying to find something to grab on to. His fingernails scratch at the varnish, dig into the wood. He's sure he's going to leave marks. "Alright."

 "You're so pretty," Louis says conversationally, his tongue darting out to wet his lips--Harry lets himself track the movement, lets himself stare unabashedly at Louis' lips. "So fucking _pretty_. The adverts don't do you justice at all."

Harry opens his mouth, about to say something along the lines of Louis being pretty too, when Louis starts jerking him off faster, twisting his hand at the tip. Harry can't do anything but close his eyes and moan, can't do anything but feel the warmth of Louis' body on his.

Louis leans forward, expertly dodging Harry's mouth, and presses his lips against the underside of Harry's jaw. He bites at it, and Harry gasps at the feeling of pain blooming on his skin. His hand never falters in its ministrations.

"You look even prettier like this," Louis murmurs, into his skin, before beginning to suck a love bite. Harry shudders, arches off the wall, his fingernails digging into the surface of the door. "Wrecked and flushed, hm, desperate to come--"

"Please," Harry manages to interrupt, as Louis continues to work his hand up and down Harry's shaft. He doesn't know what he's saying, doesn't know what he _wanted_ to say in the first place."Please, Louis."

"I've been thinking about this, you know," Louis says. He starts jerking Harry off faster, the friction of it so delicious that it drives Harry crazy. "How different you'd look from your adverts, when I've got you all mussed up."

"I--"

"You're so much prettier, like this," Louis continues. Harry fucks up into his fist, chasing his orgasm. He can't do anything else, doesn't know anything else except Louis' voice and Louis' hand on his cock. He's so close now, so, so close, he just needs a little bit more. "If I were CK, I'd put you on the adverts just like this."

A few more strokes and then Harry's coming, his vision going white with the force of his orgasm. He spills over Louis' fist and all over Louis' stomach and chest. He comes so hard his knees buckle, and he almost falls to the floor, if not for Louis catching him and gently setting him on the floor.

Harry takes a deep breath, and then another. "That was really good," he says, when he can. His voice is still wrecked, scratchy, and he clears his throat a few times. "Thanks."

Louis gives him a look, his hand still on Harry's biceps, just in case Harry falls over again. He scoots forward, until their knees are touching. "You should work on your dirty talk."

Harry's caught off-guard. "What?"

"Your dirty talk," Louis elaborates. His eyes dart all over Harry, presumably checking him over--and Harry _doesn't_ flush at the attention--before he's pulling his hand away, satisfied by what he finds. "It's shit."

Harry pouts at him. "Hey." His dirty talk is fine. Great, even. What does Louis know.

Louis raises his hands defensively. "I'm just being honest, mate," he says. "Your dirty talk was about views, for some goddamned reason." There's a hint of a smile on his lips, one that lets Harry know he's joking. "And your parents. I don't really know if this applies to everyone, but when I'm getting my dick sucked, I'd rather not talk about someone's parents."

Harry pouts harder. "Well," he grumbles, looking down at his lap. "Made you come, didn't I?"

"Oh, you did," Louis says. Harry feels two fingers beneath his chin, forcing him to look up. "You definitely did."

And then Louis leans forward, his eyes trained on Harry's. Harry stays perfectly still, unblinking, even as Louis' face comes closer and closer, even as Louis gently brushes his lips on the corner of Harry's.

He pulls away, his blue eyes darting over Harry's face, seemingly searching for something. It's another few moments until he's shifting, pushing himself up to a standing position.

"I'll see you later, Curly," he says, both his tone and his smile kind, and then he's gone, unlocking the door and leaving Harry alone, sat on the floor of the dressing room.

. . .

They release the adverts a month later.

Liam, ever the efficient handler, calls him up at eight in the morning to inform him about it. Calvin Klein and Adidas had decided on four of their photos, and are now channelling their energy on syndicating them. They're to be put up in billboards, across the city, as well as distributed to every major magazine or tabloid with a connection to either CK or Adidas.

"The photos are gorgeous, Harry," Liam gushes, his voice tinny over the phone. "I mean, I knew they'd be gorgeous when you and Louis were shooting it, but they still completely blew my mind."

Liam has been to hundreds of Harry's photo shoots, seen thousands of Harry's editorials, but rarely does he ever gush about them. The fact that he's doing so now makes Harry feel a flash of pride. He wonders how they turned out, tries to imagine the photos all while Liam talks in his ear about the composition and lighting and how, as he speaks, he's sending Harry a hard copy of the adverts for his perusal.

Liam also tells him about what's on his schedule for the day. It's not much; he's got a fitting at one, with Gucci, then a boxing session at three. Harry makes a mental note to pop by the shop after his boxing session to pick up some fruits and vegetables. He's got one banana left in his fruit bowl, which in itself is a crisis; he doesn't like having less than three at all times.

"...and then you've got a party later at eight," Liam says, when Harry tunes back in, after his daydream about fruits. "A launch party for the adverts, organized by both Calvin Klein and Adidas."

Harry exhales loudly, blowing the hair off his face. "Let me guess, I'm supposed to attend?"

" _Expected_ to," Liam corrects primly, and the tone of his voice makes Harry stifle a laugh in his pillow. "It's small, so it's bound not to be that tiring--"

"Oh, please," Harry interrupts, rolling his eyes. He lifts his head, adjusts his pillow, and lies back down again. "The smaller they are, the more exhausting they'll be. You know this, Liam."

" _And_ ,"  Liam continues reproachfully, as if scolding Harry over the phone for interrupting him, "Louis will be there."

Harry blinks. "Louis Tomlinson?"

"Who else?"

Louis Tomlinson. Huh. He hasn't seen Louis in a month. Hasn't even tried to contact him--not through Liam, or Louis' manager Niall, or even through Twitter or Instagram. He doesn't even have Louis' number; Louis didn't give it, and Harry didn't even think to ask. It was a hook-up, a one time, no strings attached stress reliever that wouldn't, _shouldn't_ extend outside the confines of the dressing room in the photo studio.

But, it's Louis. He thinks about how pretty Louis looked when Harry first saw him, after Louis threw a shoe at him. When Harry got to stand chest to chest with him, got to place his hands all over Louis' body. When Harry took him apart with his mouth and his tongue, and Louis turned around to repay the favour.

It's Louis, and even a month later, he's still the most gorgeous man Harry's ever seen. Harry supposes it can't hurt to see him again.

He wets his lips. "He'll be there?"

"Confirmed attendance as of yesterday evening," Liam replies, proudly, like he's showing off his knowledge. "Should I confirm your attendance as well?"

Harry exhales. "Yeah," he says quietly, unhesitatingly. "I--yeah, do that. I'll be there." Louis Tomlinson. Tonight should be fun.

"Done." Harry can hear Liam's smug smile, even over the phone, and he rolls his eyes pre-emptively. "God, I know you so well."

Harry huffs. "No you don't."

"I do," Liam insists. "I'm like your second mum. The second Anne Twist.  Really, you should really start calling me 'mum'."

"Goodbye, Liam," Harry says loudly, making as if he's about to hang up the phone. Liam only ever jokes around when all the business talk is done, which means if he hangs up now, he won't miss anything important.

"That's 'goodbye mum'  to you, Harry Edward Styles," Liam answers, his tone firm. Harry can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Harry sighs, trying to fight a grin. "Fine, Li-mum." He peeks at the time, as Liam laughs heartily in his ear. It's only eight thirty, which means he's got...four and a half hours until his fitting. Plenty of time for a nap. "I'm gonna go back to sleep, mkay? I'll see you later."

"Just don't be late to your fitting," Liam says.

Harry yawns. "I'm never late." He ends the call before Liam can protest, burying his face into the pillow and breathing in deep.

He's asleep within seconds.

. . .

He isn't late, contrary to Liam's claims. He's actually there on time, manages to fit all three Gucci suits, as per the schedule. He even gets a box of shirts at the end of it, which he happily accepts--Gucci has _such_ a unique style and he never says no to free stuff. It's one of his principles in life.

His boxing session goes well too--Mark, his trainer, commends him on his energy, and has him on his tip toes for the next two hours. By the end of it, he's exhausted but happy, in the way only a really good workout session can make him feel.

He showers quickly, spends his time sorting through his box of new Gucci shirts until he finds a sheer black one that shows off his tattoos nicely. He shaves, fixes his hair, applies a dab of cologne and then he's off, getting in the service car that's idly waiting for him outside his house.

The party's already in full swing when he gets there, with music playing and drinks being served left and right. Harry picks up a flute of champagne from one of the passing trays, take a sip of it--it's sweet, bubbly on his tongue. He keeps it in his hand as he makes the rounds, greeting everyone warmly and pressing kisses on their cheeks.

He spots Kendall a few metres away, and he goes over to her to say hi. Kendall's a good friend--they work for the same brand, and they've been partnered together for a lot of Calvin Klein editorials. She's a lot of fun to work with; she always laughs at Harry's jokes and makes her own corny ones in response. They even have a long-standing monthly coffee date, where she updates Harry with the industry gossip he might have missed. That's probably why there are so many rumours about them dating.

He chats with her for a bit--she congratulates him on the adverts, which he accepts warmly. He doesn't keep her; he can tell that she's spotted Gigi, going by the way her face lights up and her eyes seem to focus on someone behind Harry's shoulder.  It's okay, though, since she's not the one Harry hoped to see tonight.

No, the one he hoped to see tonight is over by the bar, obviously trying to get the bartender to make him something other than the flutes of champagne going around.

That's the ironic thing about him and Kendall. They can't date each other because they're both just so _uninterested_ in the opposite sex.

He makes his way over to the bar, sidling up next to Louis. Louis doesn't look at him; instead, he's focused on the bartender mixing his drink in front of him. Harry takes the opportunity to study him--the slope of his nose, the high points of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, all the way down to his dark blue polo and skinny jeans--and even if he knew what to expect, the sight of him still takes Harry's breath away.

The bartender slides the glass to Louis, and Louis thanks the bartender with a wink, sipping at his drink, before turning to Harry beside him, eyebrow already quirked in anticipation.

"You want one?" He asks. There's a hint of a smile on his lips.

Harry shakes his head, feels himself grin in response. "Nah," he says. "I'm good."

Louis doesn't speak after that, and Harry watches as Louis' eyes rake over him, giving him a very obvious once-over. He seems to be drinking him in slowly--taking into account Harry's sheer shirt and numerous tattoos, which were painted over the last time they saw each other.

Louis meets his eyes a few minutes later. "Haven't seen you in a while," he drawls, a smirk on his face. He shifts, bringing himself closer to Harry. "You look good."

Harry hums. "Likewise," he says, shifting closer to Louis. He nods to the drink in Louis' hand, placing his own on the smooth marble countertop. "Champagne not doing it for you?"

Louis wrinkles his nose. "Champagne sucks," he corrects, then takes a sip of his drink. It leaves his mouth wet, and so, very red.

Harry cocks his head. "You know, they're not supposed to be serving other drinks until ten."

Louis' eyes sparkle beneath the dim lights of the club. "You'll be surprised how far a little flirting goes."

He shifts, turns to look back at the party--Harry's eyes are drawn to the hollow of his neck and the top of his chest, where the first few buttons of his polo shirt are undone. It looks delectable--Harry  imagines putting his mouth there, pressing love bites into his skin. Imagines licking and nibbling until Louis makes all those pretty sounds again.

"How far?" Harry asks, tearing his eyes away from Louis' neck. He can't think that. Not yet, anyway. Not until he's sure they're on the same page.

Instead, he focuses his attention on Louis' hand, resting on the bar. Boldly, he inches his hand closer and closer to Louis'.

Louis pauses. "Well, it got me this drink," he says, making to look like he's deep in thought. His fingers are an inch away from Harry's. "Last time I flirted, it got me a free drink as well. The time before that--" he breaks off, pulls his hand away to tap at his chin, effectively thwarting Harry's advances, "--I got a really cute boy to suck my cock."

Harry grins, pulling his hand back. The sparkle in Louis' eyes tells him that Louis knows _exactly_ what he just did. "Wow," he says. "you _do_ get far."

"Don't I?" Louis replies, fixing his fringe. It's falling nicely across his forehead, and Harry wants to reach out and run his hands through it. "What about you, Curly? You flirt a lot?"

Harry shakes his head. "Only flirt with the cute ones," he says cheekily.

Louis snorts. "Well, I hope your flirting technique isn't as bad as your dirty talk."

Harry pouts. "Hey."

"Only teasing," Louis replies, placating. He moves closer to Harry, until Harry can feel the warmth of Louis' body, until Harry has to duck down a bit to meet Harry's eye.

The air between them is static, charged--like a slow coil of electricity unfurling between them. Harry knows Louis can feel it too, can see it in the way Louis' eyes darken, how he shifts to bring himself closer, to erase the unnecessary space between them. They're not touching, not yet, and which makes it all the more fun; it's an exercise in self-restraint, a dam, waiting to be broken.

This is going _way_ better than how he imagined it.

"So," Louis starts, taking another sip of his drink. His eyes are sparkling underneath the club lights, alight with a hint of mischief and challenge. "What brings you here today?"

Harry shrugs. "Same as you, I guess," he answers. "I was _expected_ to attend."

"Ooh," Louis grins. "But it is our launch party after all."

"It is," Harry agrees. He catches Louis' eye. "But now I just kind of want to leave."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Didn't you just get here?" There's a small smile playing on his lips, one that lets Harry know that Louis is teasing, baiting him--it's obvious that they're on the same page, that Louis knows what Harry wants, but it's also obvious that he wants Harry to _work_ for it.

 That, Harry can do.

He slowly moves closer, crowding up into Louis' space. Louis doesn't take a step back, doesn't even move; instead, he stays perfectly still, lets Harry bridge the gap between them. He doesn't touch Harry, though, and Harry doesn't touch him; they're balancing on the edge, right on the cusp before they free-fall into  tangle of sweat and skin.

"I did," Harry says, deliberately wetting his lips. Louis' eyes follow the movement, and Harry tries not to smirk. "But I've done the rounds, said hi to everyone I know...it might be better to ditch before it gets messy, isn't it?"

"Hm," Louis acknowledges. His eyes haven't strayed from Harry's lips at all. "But you haven't danced yet."

"Well," Harry says, "I don't really dance."

Louis' eyes flash up to meet his. "You should," he says, and Harry watches his mouth curve up even more, his eyes crinkling. "It's fun."

"Do you dance?" Harry asks.

"Never alone," Louis answers. He angles his body closer, leans up until his mouth is brushing the shell of Harry's ear. "Always with the fit boys."

And then he takes Harry's hand, pulling him towards the dance floor, and Harry can do nothing but stumble behind him.

Louis leads them to an empty spot, before leaning closer, his breath hot on the side of Harry's face. "Dance with me," he says, and then he turns around, presses his arse to Harry's crotch. He snakes a hand around Harry's neck, playing with the curls on his nape, before pulling him down, close enough so Harry can hear his words. "But keep your hands off."

He grinds back and Harry's breath hitches, his hands coming up to caress the skin on Louis' stomach, above the waistband of his jeans. But before he can get really into it, before he can splay his fingers on warm skin, Louis is pulling away from Harry's grasp.

"I said," and though Louis' voice is low, quiet in the thrumming noise of the club, there's a firmness to it, like it's an order Harry needs to obey. "Hands off, Styles."

Harry takes a deep breath, holds it in his lungs. He nods, once.

"Let's try this again," Louis says decisively, and then he's turning to fit his arse against Harry's crotch once more. He's solid and warm against Harry, and Harry bites his lip, curling his hands into fists to keep from touching.

Louis winds one hand around Harry's neck, pulling Harry's head towards him. "Good job, Curly."

Harry pouts. "Why are _you_ allowed to touch and I'm not?"

Harry swears he hears Louis smile. "My game, my rules," Louis replies. "Besides, I'm teaching you how to dance. I can use whatever teaching technique I want."

He shakes his hips, and Harry tries to follow, tries to mimic Louis' movement. He's by no means a dancer--he can hardly walk straight, some days, much to Liam's disappointment--but he thinks he can probably follow the beat, can grind up against Louis in time to the music. He's done it before, to a few people, in an effort to take them home, and he thinks he can do it again now.

But the thing is, it was much easier when he was allowed to _touch_.

"Feel the music," Louis murmurs to him. He pushes his arse back, against Harry's crotch, and Harry feels his cock perk up at the contact. "Move to it."

"It'd be easier if I could touch you, you know," Harry murmurs back. He thrusts forward slowly. " _Much_ easier."

Harry hears Louis' breath hitch. "Then it wouldn't be a challenge, would it?"

They manage to get a rhythm going, Louis grinding at Harry, and Harry grinding back, his hands hovering over Louis, but never making contact. Harry doesn't know if it's hot in the club, or if it's just them--the temperature seems to rise with every movement Louis makes, until Harry is burning up all over. He can feel the sweat on his neck, rolling into his chest, and he's itching to get naked, to rip all his clothes of, public decency be damned.

But Louis is still plastered to his front, arse to Harry's crotch, and Harry doesn't want to detach himself from Louis for even a second. Louis dances like he'll never dance again--grinding back into Harry's space, hips shaking sinfully, enough that Harry's trousers suddenly feel a size smaller, and he has to resist the urge to grip his cock right here, in the middle of the dance floor.

Louis cranes his neck back to look at Harry, nestles his head on Harry's shoulder. His eyes are hooded, and there's sweat beading the top of his lip, but he still looks like every single one of Harry's wet dreams come to life. "Hey," he murmurs. "You're not a bad dancer."

Harry grins at him. "Thanks."

"You should do it more often," Louis says, before lifting his head and moving in time to the pulsing club music. Harry follows, moving his hips to the beat, his hands hovering above Louis' body.

"Only with the fit boys, though," Harry murmurs into Louis' ear, smirks when he feels Louis' full body shudder against him. He bites gently at Louis' earlobe, tugging at it with his teeth, before craning his neck to bite at the skin of Louis' neck.

He feels, rather than hears, Louis gasp quietly. "I said no touching."

"I'm not touching," Harry replies cheekily, putting his hands behind his back for emphasis. He licks at Louis' neck, tasting sweat and skin. "I'm just...tasting."

Louis shudders again. "You play dirty, Harry Styles," he says, tilting his head, to give Harry more access. Harry immediately latches on, runs his tongue on Louis' pulse point, before biting, sucking a mark just beneath Louis' jaw.

"Nah," he says, when he pulls away a few minutes later. "I just play to win."

Harry observes his mark, presses a kiss to it, before biting at the skin beneath it, starting a new mark under the first one. Louis' going to have _such_ a hard time hiding this, and the thought of Louis walking around with Harry's marks around his neck makes him preen, makes him redouble his efforts.

He hears Louis moan, the hand around Harry's neck coming up to fist at his hair. "Who said you were losing in the first place?"

Louis smells good, smells like a mixture of aftershave and cologne, and Harry can't help but nose beneath Louis' jaw, inhale where the scent is strongest. From here, he can feel it when Louis swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing right beneath Harry's nose.

They've stopped dancing now, stopped grinding at each other to the beat of the song playing. Instead, they're unmoving, a still point in a sea of writhing bodies. Louis is still pressed up against him, back to chest, and like this, it's easy for Harry to think they're one entity, easy for Harry to imagine that they're fused together like so. It's easy for Harry to imagine them as constant, immobile, in the middle other objects that turn and break and bend.

He bites at Louis' pulse point, relishes in Louis' little gasp. He feels Louis take his hand in between his own, feels Louis press it against his stomach, and he smirks into Louis' skin.

"Oh," he says. "So I'm allowed to touch now?"

He doesn't give Louis the chance to respond, instead, encircles Louis' waist with his arm and pulls him flush against Harry, closer, until not even a sliver of light can come between them. Louis is panting, breathing loudly enough for Harry to hear over the music, and despite the dim light, he can see the beginnings of a pretty blush at the tops of Louis' cheekbones.

Harry leans down, kisses the marks on Louis' neck, traces them with his tongue. He's fully hard in his trousers--he knows Louis can feel it, especially since they're standing so close, and he slowly pushes his erection into Louis' plush arse. Louis moans filthily, and that's all it takes for Harry to make up his mind.

"So," he says conversationally, right into Louis' ear. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Yes," Louis gasps, and then he's tangling his hand in Harry's, and pulling him toward the club exit. Harry stumbles behind him, waving goodbye to the few people he knows, but for the most part, trying not to trip on his own two feet.

They manage to make it out of the club without any major incidents, and Harry wastes no time calling his service car. It hasn't even been a minute when it drives up in front of the car, and Harry thanks all the gods (and Liam) for this particular service.

He pulls open the door, ushers Louis in, before getting in himself.

"Home please," he says to the driver, when the door is finally shut. He hasn't even leaned back in his seat fully before Louis is climbing on him, straddling him on the back seat, pressing his lips against Harry's neck.

"You know," Harry says, even as his hands fall to Louis' hips to hold him in place. "This is a traffic safety violation."

"Don't care," Louis dismisses, making himself comfortable on Harry's lap. He's fully hard as well--Harry can feel his bulge pressing insistently against his own cock. He grinds down and Harry moans, his hips bucking up to chase the friction.

He's just glad that the windows of the car are tinted.

Louis leans down to kiss under Harry's jaw, bite at the skin of Harry's neck, and the pain makes Harry moan, his cock throbbing painfully in his trousers.

"Still no kissing?" Harry breathes out, when Louis sucks a mark on Harry's skin, evidently  getting revenge for the marks on his own neck. Harry can see them, illuminated by the London city lights--can see the purple bruises that, if examined, would fit the shape of Harry's mouth perfectly.

"Nope," Louis replies, pulling away from Harry's neck. "I told you, I don't kiss my hook-ups."

"Shame," Harry mutters, but the word is lost in a moan as Louis grinds down particularly hard. One of Louis' hands have slipped underneath Harry's shirt, and is pawing at the button of Harry's trousers.

"You're very handsy," Harry tsks, when he feels his button pop open.

Louis makes a triumphant noise. "Says the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself," Louis snipes, but he's slipping his hands into Harry's pants all the same.

Harry moans when Louis cups his cock, writhes when Louis presses his palm to it. He doesn't pull away, nor does he do anything else--he simply keeps his hand there, the pressure enough to make Harry squirm.

He slips his hands under Louis' shirt in retaliation, easily finding the waistband of his jeans. His hands travel to Louis' lower back, before he's slipping his hands into Louis' jeans, gripping both of Louis' arse cheeks over his underwear.

Louis whines. "Fuck."

Harry doesn't know how long they spend groping and rutting against each other in the back seat; all he knows is that the driver had to clear his throat loudly three times for him to realize they've arrived at Harry's house. Harry thanks the driver, pulls Louis out of the car, and unlocks his front door.

They stumble through the house in a tangle of limbs and hands--Harry manages to trip over his own carpet, but they eventually make it to the bed in one piece. Louis wastes no time in pouncing, roughly pushing Harry onto the bed, before climbing on top of him.

He grinds down on Harry's cock, and Harry moans, his hips bucking up to chase the friction. It's good, so deliciously good, but Harry wants more.

He pulls Louis closer, digging his fingernails into Louis' shoulders. Louis doesn't seem to notice; instead he seems focused on rutting his hips against Harry's, chasing his own release.

"God," Louis whines, when Harry thrusts up particularly hard. His hands make its way underneath Harry's shirt, pushing the sheer fabric up above Harry's nipples. "Get this fucking shirt off."

He starts unbuttoning it, his fingers fumbling. He gets to the second one before he sighs, griping the lapels of it and making to tear it off Harry's body.

Harry's hands come down to stop him.

"Don't rip it," he says, pushing at Louis shoulders until he leans back, giving Harry enough space to unbutton his shirt. Harry makes quick work of it, his fingers sliding off the buttons before shrugging it off his shoulders. "It's Gucci."

"Yeah, well I'm horny," Louis shoots back, divesting himself of his own clothing. He manages to kick of his own jeans, before going to help Harry with his. "Something _has_ to be a priority here."

Harry runs his hands all over Louis' torso, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Louis' hips.  He's just so pretty, all golden, his flush in a gradient of pink from his face down to his chest. He's so loud too--moaning filthily when Harry pulls him closer, their cocks brushing through the fabric.

One of Louis' hands pull at the waistband of Harry's boxers, and he lifts his hips, allows Louis to take them off.

"Okay," he says, when Louis has thrown his underwear somewhere he can't see. "Now you."

He flips their positions, caging Louis in with his arms. He quickly pulls down Louis' boxers, dropping them onto the floor. Louis' cock springs free, hard and leaking at the tip, and Harry wraps a hand around it, strokes lightly.

Louis hisses. "Harry," he says, bucking up into Harry's hand. "Don't tease."

"Just having a bit of fun," Harry replies pouting, but he takes his hand off Louis' cock after one last teasing stroke. He leans over to his night table, digs deep in his drawer to find his bottle of lube and a condom, and when he comes back Louis is smirking at him, his eyes hazy with arousal.

"Been a while?" He asks casually, like he's not completely naked under Harry, waiting to get fucked.

"No," Harry lies, focusing on opening the cap and slicking up his fingers. "Just like to keep my stuff hidden." When he looks back at Louis, his eyes are fixed on Harry's fingers, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Bet it's been a while for _you_."

"Shut up," Louis mutters, and Harry's sure if his face could get any redder, it would. "Just get them in me now."

He spreads his legs and lifts them up, and Harry pushes a finger in, past the ring of muscle. He's tight, so tight that Harry's cock throbs at the feeling. He has no doubt that this is going to be _so_ good.

Louis grinds down on Harry's finger, gasping. "More," he manages to get out as Harry pulls his finger in and out, fucking him with it."More, please."

"Eager, much?" Harry mutters, but he squeezes his other finger next to the first one. There's a lot more resistance, but Louis moans loudly, arching up his back like he can't get enough of it.

"Deeper," he says, as Harry pushes both his fingers down to the second knuckle."Come on, Harry, fucking _give_ it to me."

Harry tries not to laugh. "Okay, baby," he replies sarcastically, as he scissors his fingers, stretching Louis open even more. He feels around Louis' walls, searching for his prostate--he knows he finds it when Louis' back arches, and he lets out a truly obscene moan.

"There," he gasps, moving his hips in a way that makes it look like he's fucking himself on Harry's fingers. "Third finger, come on."

"Well aren't you bossy," Harry tutts, but does as he's told. It's a tight fit, but he makes it work, and it's not long until Harry's got Louis keening, fucking him with his fingers and pressing down on his prostate randomly.

"Harry," Louis moans, gripping tightly on the sheets beneath him. There's sweat beading on his hairline, dripping down the side of his face, and his cock is so red, it's almost purple. "Harry, please, get in me now."

Harry fucks his fingers in, and out. Louis' still so _tight_. "Louis--"

"I can take it," Louis promises, his eyes blown so much that only a sliver of blue is left. He grinds down on Harry's fingers, trying to get them deeper. "Harry, _please_."

"Alright," Harry murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. Louis whines at the loss, but he doesn't complain, not when Harry rips the condom packet with his teeth, rolls it on his cock. He has to squeeze the base a few times, to stave off his orgasm--Louis' just so _hot_ and it really has been a while--before slicking himself up. He holds his cock steady, lines it up with Louis' hole, and waits.

Louis sighs. "Are you waiting for permission?"

"I'm not going to shove it in like a barbarian, am I?"

Louis rolls his eyes. "Only you, Harry Styles. Come on, _fuck me_."

And when Louis puts it like that, how can Harry resist?

He pushes into Louis slowly, torturously slowly. Louis throws his head back and hisses, obviously in pain, because, like Harry said, he's still too fucking _tight_. He stills, waits for Louis to complain, but he doesn't; instead, he just grits his teeth and tells Harry to go in deeper. His cock, Harry notes, hasn't flagged the slightest.

Interesting.

He stays still once he's bottomed out, letting Louis adjust to the size of his cock. It's a bit hard to stop himself from fucking into Louis, but he manages, locking his muscles so he doesn't move. It doesn't take long for Louis to relax, for his legs to encircle Harry's, for him to whisper, "Go."

He fucks into Louis hard, immediately setting an unrelenting pace that makes Louis keen. Both of his hands makes its way to the back of Harry's neck, gripping at the strands at the base of his skull, and he pulls, _hard_ , making Harry moan and snap his hips into Louis roughly.

"Again," Louis demands, breathless. Harry does it again, this time switching up the angle with every thrust. It takes about a dozen thrusts until he finds Louis' prostate, and he maintains that position, fucking Louis so hard that he almost screams.

Harry knows he's not going to last--they've been teasing and flirting and playing with each other for much too long, so he snakes a hand around Louis' cock, jerks him off in time to his thrusts. He feels Louis untangle one of his hands from his hair, wrapping it alongside Harry's. It only takes a few more strokes until Louis is coming, keening and shooting come all the way up to his chin. The sight of him like that, breathless and sweaty and covered in come, makes Harry snap his hips faster, rougher, until he's burying himself to the hilt and coming into the condom.

"You're not an endurance man, are you," Louis mumbles, when Harry collapses on top of him. Harry turns his head, does his best to level Louis with a glare.

"Shut up," he mumbles back, pulling out and rolling onto the left side of the bed. "Neither are you." He quickly pulls the condom off his cock, ties it off, and throws it on the floor, to be dealt with later.

Louis gasps sleepily. "A messy man, too! What would my mother say if she found out I was consorting with slobs?"

Harry feels his mouth twitch. "Go to sleep, you." He's exhausted; it's been a rather long day, and although it's been fun, it's late and there's a cute boy in his bed and he wants to sleep.

Louis yawns. "Make me," he mumbles. Harry feels him pull the duvet up until his shoulder, and he smiles, buries his face into his pillow and closes his eyes.

. . .

Harry wakes completely naked, his duvet wrapped around him like a burrito. Louis isn't on the bed anymore when he opens his eyes, the bed sheets creased and ruffled, and Harry takes a moment to mourn the round two he had dreamed of having, before burying his face into his pillow again.

He's just about dozed off again when there's a crash from somewhere to his left, making him jolt up in surprise, gripping tightly to his blanket burrito for dear life.

"Sorry," he hears someone-- _Louis_ \--say guiltily. He's standing by Harry's desk, wearing nothing but Harry's Calvin Kleins and Harry's lavender jumper. There's a manila envelope in his hand, one that he obviously pulled from Harry's desk, with what looks like Liam's scribbles on it. "I'll clean up the mess, I promise."

Harry's eyes fall on the mess of things that's fallen off his desk--old papers, a bunch of pens, business cards and a stapler, of all things. "You don't have to," he says, lying back down on the bed. He frees an arm from his burrito and throws it over his eyes, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. "I didn't know you were still here."

He feels Louis climb back on the bed. "Don't know where my clothes are," he answers cheerily. "Was waiting for you to wake up so I could borrow some of your clothes."

"You're already wearing them," Harry points out matter-of-factly. He doesn't mean to be rude, but, well, Louis _is_ wearing Harry's favourite jumper, which he obviously got from the closet. Really, there's no discernible reason why he had to _wait_ for Harry to wake up. Or what he was doing touching the things on Harry's desk.

He hears Louis hum in acknowledgement, and he waits for Louis to get off the bed and ask permission to borrow _more_ clothes--because maybe Louis didn't want Harry to think he's a clothes thief or what not. However, he doesn't; he just rustles a bunch of papers, as if he's sorting through a bunch of documents, and it makes Harry frown and sit up from the bed. "What _are_ you doing?"

Louis doesn't answer. Instead, Harry looks at the foot of the bed, where Louis had set out a bunch of papers side by side. It takes a moment for Harry to realize that they're prints--the finished adverts of the photo shoot he and Louis did a month ago.

So Liam really did send them over.

He shifts until he's lying on his stomach his head toward the foot of the bed. Louis just hums, moving to give Harry enough space, but either than that, he doesn't say anything. His eyes are trained on the adverts in front of him.

Harry reaches out and picks up the closest one to him, before blinking at it, studying it. It takes a few moments to register what he's seeing, but when it clicks, his jaw drops.

"Shit," he breathes, his eyes wide as he scans over every part of the photo. It's the one with him and Louis covered in paint, and even though Harry knew how gorgeous the photos would turn out to be while they were shooting, he didn't anticipate it to be this _breathtaking_. The paint is bright on their skin, the rainbow smears stark against the dark backdrop of the studio, giving the photo a splash of colour. He's got Louis pinned to the wall, their noses brushing together--Harry's eyes are half-lidded, obviously trained at Louis' mouth, while Louis' eyes are fully closed, looking relaxed and pliant. It's simple and artistic and incredibly _erotic_ that Harry loves it.

"They're gorgeous," he says reverently, tracing a finger at where the marketing team had photoshopped the Calvin Klein x Adidas logo. Louis hums, leaning over to study the photo in Harry's hand, his body warm against Harry's shoulder.

"It is," he says, after some time, reaching out to tap at the photo. He plucks it easily from Harry's hand and places it back on the bed, in line with the others. "Better than I expected."

"It's cause you're a genius," Harry says, nudging him with his shoulder. "A better shoot director than Girolle."

Louis rolls his eyes, but Harry can see a hint of a curve to the set of his lips. "Yeah, well, I just like to experiment on shoots, sometimes."

Harry reaches over to pick out another print, this time the one of them on the couch. "Experiment, yeah," he says, studying the photo. "But it wouldn't have been a success without our _smoking_ sexual tension."

Louis snorts. "Right."

"I'm serious," Harry insists, waving the print in his hand in front of Louis' face. Louis huffs and bats Harry's hand away lightly. "We have so much sexual tension." He studies the print closely, taking in the angles and the light composition. "And we have great sex," he adds.

"We've had sex once," Louis protests.

"Twice, if you count the blowjob in the dressing room," Harry points out. "But nevertheless, great all around."

"Okay," Louis says slowly, "do you have a point?"

"I'm just saying," Harry puts the print down on the bed, pillowing his head under his arms. There's an idea niggling at the back of his mind, one that makes him blurt out: "It'd be great if we could make it a regular thing, you know?"

There's a few seconds of silence.

"Harry," Louis says carefully, thoughtfully. "If you're going to ask me out on a date, then I'm really sorry, I'm not interested."

Harry laughs. "No, nothing like that," he replies, propping his head up with his hand. He lets his eyes dart lazily all over Louis' body--from his face, to his neck, marred with love bites, to theway Harry's lavender falls to the middle of his thigh. Louis doesn't visibly react, but he does flush slightly, which Harry takes to mean that he's just as affected. "I'm not looking for a relationship either. Too busy, you know."

"So what _are_ you proposing?" Louis asks. He's intrigued--Harry can see it in his eyes, at the way his head is cocked just slightly, and a part of Harry basks in having Louis' full attention.

"An arrangement," Harry replies. He scoots closer, to Louis, presses part of his chest against Louis' thigh. "I mean, I think you're gorgeous, you think I'm pretty--"

"No, I don't," Louis interrupts.

"--And our sex is amazing," Harry finishes, grinning at Louis the way he knows makes his dimples pop out attractively. "So I'm just suggesting, instead of going out and putting in effort to pull random guys, why don't we just...fuck each other?"

Louis' eyes widen at Harry's words. "You mean, like a friends with benefits arrangement?" He asks.

Harry winces. "I don't like the term," he complains. "Reminds me one of those dumb Hollywood films. But essentially."

Because who is he kidding. He is _definitely_ proposing a Friends With Benefits arrangement with Louis. One that will ensure that he gets laid on the regular, without having to toil through numerous faceless men every time. Really it's a win-win situation--sex without the attachment other boring, serious relationships have.

And without the _feelings_. Harry doesn't have time for all the feelings. He loves love, wants to find his soul mate one day, one who he can settle down with and raise three children and a puppy with, but currently he's at the peak of his career and just doesn't have the _time_ to put himself out there. Doesn't have the time to maintain a relationship, if he's being honest. He just wants to work, have fun, and fuck an attractive man regularly to relax.

"No strings attached?" Louis asks after a few moments of silence, and his eyes are still wide, incredulous, but there's something in the tone of his voice that makes Harry feel vaguely hopeful.

"None whatsoever," Harry promises solemnly.

Louis takes a deep breath, clearly having made a decision. "Okay," he agrees tentatively, looking down at Harry's bed spread. He draws a few circles on it, before looking back up at Harry. "I'm in. But I think we need to establish a few ground rules."

Harry blinks up at him. "Ground rules?" It hadn't occurred to him to do that, but now that he thinks about it, Louis is right. Boundaries are good. Boundaries are a way of preventing them from ending up like those messy straight couples in Hollywood films. "Such as?"

Louis arches an eyebrow. "No kissing."

Harry makes a face. "You're missing out, you know that," he complains, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Kissing is the best."

"No kissing," Louis insists, reaching over to pinch Harry on the thigh. "I don't just kiss anyone."

Harry sighs. "Fine," he says, rolling his eyes. He pauses in thought, racks his brain for something. "No sleeping with other people."

Louis scoffs. "Wow," he says. "Tying me down already."

"It's just safety," Harry insists, crossing his arms. "To prevent unwanted STDs or whatever. You're free to meet other people, date, that's none of my concern, but when it's something more than that, I have to know so we can call the entire thing off."

"Condoms exist," Louis points out, but he mulls it over. "Fine," he says. "That goes for me, too." He pauses, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. "No cuddling."

"What?" Harry doesn't mean to sound so sad, but honestly, for him, one of the best parts of sex is getting to cuddle after. He loves getting cuddles.

"Cuddling is grounds for intimacy," Louis argues, crossing his arms. "The less intimacy, the better. None of that romantic pillow talk either. And no staying over."

Harry doesn't say anything, simply raises his eyebrows.

"I couldn't find my clothes," Louis defends, sounding huffier and huffier. "Didn't want to take any of your clothes without permission. It won't happen again."

Harry tries not to feel too disappointed. "Fine," he agrees. "No cuddling, no staying over, no kissing, no sleeping with other people. That it?"

"Pretty much," Louis agrees. He looks like he's warming up to the idea, his face much less stoic and more excited. He leans back on his arms, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "What's the protocol for if I want to meet? Do I text you? Call you? Send a smoke signal in the sky?"

Harry barks out a laugh. "Text is fine," he says. "Or call. I don't think you have to resort to smoke signals, we've got technology now, Louis."

Louis shrugs, a small grin playing on his lips. "Maybe you wanted it to be more discreet," he counters. "Maybe that's what turns you on."

"Sneaking around?" Harry cocks his head, pretends to think. "Nah. The opposite, actually. I _have_ been told I can be a bit of an exhibitionist."

Louis chuckles. "Somehow, I can believe that." He pauses. "So, text? And the ground rules are okay?

"Yep, and yep," Harry says, popping the final 'p'. He tries not to show too much excitement. After all, he doesn't want Louis to get the wrong idea about this entire thing. If he's too excited, Louis might just think it's a plot to tie him down and call this whole thing off before it's even started. No, it's just a bit of fun, to ensure that his bed is warm for a bit and to help him do his best in his job. "Looks like we're all set. If we think of anything else we can just bring it up in the future."

"Sounds fair to me," Louis answers. He throws his head back and yawns towards the ceiling, and Harry's eyes fall on the curve of Louis' neck, on the golden skin littered with bruises that fit the shape of Harry's own mouth. He finds himself wishing he could do it again, could press his lips against Louis' neck, leave bruises all over, until not a single inch of Louis is left unmarred.

Jesus, is he beautiful. Even sleep-mussed and sex-ruined and littered with so many bruises they could form a constellation, he's still so damn beautiful.

When he finally manages to pull his eyes away from Louis' neck, he finds Louis smirking at him. There's something about the way Louis is looking at him, something that makes arousal drip like honey through his veins, and Harry feels his cock begin to stir.

"So," Louis drawls, straightening his legs and brushing a toe against Harry's shin. The contact sends sparks all over Harry's body, making him lick his lips and lean forward. "Want to get started on our arrangement now?"

In reply, Harry pins him down on the bed and sucks a brand new mark Louis' neck.

. . .

 

** **

**From: Louis**  
Hey

 **From: Louis**  
Hey Harold

 **From: Louis**  
Are you busy ?

 **To: Louis**  
Why?

 **From: Louis**  
I'm bored

 **To: Louis**  
What do you want me to do about that?

 **From: Louis**  
...

 **To: Louis**  
...

 **From: Louis**  
Harry .

 **To: Louis**  
Louis.

 **To: Louis**  
Fine. Text me your address and I'll be there in half an hour.

. . .

They settle into a routine rather quickly.

It's ridiculous how quickly, actually--just barely two weeks after discussing the entire thing--but Harry can't complain, not when he's getting laid regularly by a gorgeous boy. They managed to align their schedules rather easily, and despite the business of photo shoots and fittings and industry parties and whatnot, they're able to find time to meet. Of course, they don't do it every day--there are days when Louis is incredibly busy, and Liam has this thing where he likes to pick a day of the week to jam pack all of Harry's activities in--but it's regular, usually occurring when the sun is down. Louis will text Harry or Harry will text Louis and they'll meet in Harry's house to share mutual orgasms. It's fun and it relieves the stress of the day or the week, without Harry having to commit to anyone or anything.

And if Harry had thought having regular sex with Louis would diminish its quality, well, he was wrong. If anything, their sex seems to get even _better_ , much hotter and much more explosive. Now, Harry knows where Louis likes to be touched most, where to kiss him to make him shudder and go pliant in Harry's arms. He knows what it is Louis likes and doesn't like, and how he sounds when he's really enjoying what's happening versus when he's not. He knows how to drive Louis to the edge in a way that leaves him squirming, and how he sounds like when he's begging for his orgasm.

Honestly, this idea is one of the best he's ever had. His wank bank is full of material, he's not sexually frustrated, and he isn't _committed_ , so he doesn't have to feel guilty when he flirts with a few people on industry parties or scrolls through Tinder. He's not tied down to anything, meaning he can focus on his job and his career without worrying about other people.

Really, nothing could go wrong.

. . .

"Shit." He hears Louis' quiet exhale through the ringing of his ears, and he has to tell his limbs to move three times before they actually do, letting him shift onto his side gracelessly. He's still shaking from the force of his orgasm, tiny pricks of pressure creeping down his spine, but he manages to calm himself down a bit.

"Was it not good?"

"What?" Louis asks, his head lolling to the side. He stares at Harry for a few minutes, his eyes hazy, before Harry's words to dawn on him. "No, no, it was great. Don't worry."

"Oh," Harry blinks at him. "Um, thanks." He pauses. "What's wrong then?"

"It's just," Louis' eyes slide past Harry to look at something over his shoulder. He gestures vaguely with his hand, and suddenly, Harry grows aware of the sound of the rain, pattering loud and hard on his roof. "It's kind of raining?"

"Oh," Harry says again, rather dumbly. He peeks over his shoulder, catches a flash of lightning, listens to the delayed sound of the thunder. "It is."

"Yeah," Louis replies. When Harry turns back to face him, Louis' eyes are cast downward, focused on drawing squiggles on Harry's bed sheet. "I really hate driving in the rain," he says, almost sadly, "but it's fine. I'll leave in a bit."

Yeah, see the thing is, Harry is a nice person. His mum raised him to be a good boy, to say 'please' and 'thank you' like it was going out of style. Taught him to make sure to be nice to everyone he meets, to be generous and hospitable and loving.

So there is absolutely no way Harry would kick Louis out of his house and into the rain, much less into a _thunderstorm_.

"Don't be silly," he says flippantly, watches as Louis' eyes dart up to meet his. "You can just stay here for the night."

The minute the words are out of Harry's mouth, Louis' expression changes. "Harry," he says, a hardness to his voice. There's a stubbornness in the set of his jaw, in the tilt of his mouth. "No."

"Louis," Harry counters back, being stubborn right back. "I'm not going to let you drive in this weather."

Louis is shaking his head even before Harry is finished speaking. "I can't," he says. "Remember?"

And Harry knows what he's talking about, knows what he's referring to. _No sleeping over_ \--number four in the set of rules they discussed. No sleeping over because it's _intimate_ , because it promotes closeness and spending more time than necessary with each other.

But really, if Louis thinks Harry is going to let him drive through the pouring rain at one forty-five in the morning, then he's _wrong_.

The ground rules only apply when they're reasonable. Otherwise, Harry's content to disregard it altogether.

"I remember," Harry replies slowly, looking Louis straight in the eye. "But it's pouring out there, and it's not safe and I can't, in good conscience, send you away to drive in that weather."

"I--" Louis starts, but Harry interrupts him.

"Don't be unreasonable, Louis," Harry tries to level his voice the way his mum used to do when she was telling him to do his household chores. "Just stay over. It's just once, right?"

There's a tense moment where Louis looks at him, the need to argue _plainly_ written on his face, but in a split second the expression drops from his face. "Okay," he sighs, his shoulders slumping down ever so slightly. "Okay, I'll stay over."

. . .

"...and I've called some paps to take some pictures for you," Liam finishes, his voice authoritative in Harry's ear. "They'll be at the shop at noon, so you're going to have to pop down there at around that time."

Harry huffs, lowering the speed of the treadmill and reaching for his towel. He wipes at his forehead. "A pap walk?" He asks incredulously, trying not to pant too loudly. "Why?"  He racks his brain, tries to find something he's supposed to be promoting, comes up empty. "What for?"

Liam sighs, and Harry can already picture him shaking his head. No matter how many times Harry explains that he _hates_ having to do pap walks, hates people taking pictures of him doing mundane things like walking a dog that's not his or buying oranges at the market, Liam never seems to understand it. "Promotion," Liam says long-sufferingly, like Harry doesn't understand. "You're going to the Miu Miu party in two weeks."

Oh yeah. Ugh, industry parties. "But still," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "They're going to get enough pictures of me _there_ , I don't understand why I have to go down to bloody Paige Denim and pretend to buy trousers."

Liam hesitates, long enough that Harry catches it, even through the phone. "Liam," he starts, stopping the treadmill completely. He leans against the safety bar, wiping at the excess sweat on his brow. "What's going on?"

"I didn't want to tell you," Liam says, hushed, like he doesn't want anyone to overhear. Which is ridiculous, seeing as Harry is pretty sure he's just sat in his office right now.  "Not until I was sure, but there seems to be some buzz surrounding you. You and _Louis_ ," he clarifies, sounding more and more excited. "There's a lot of talk about the adverts you did together, people raving over them. Said they were _revolutionary_." He emphasizes the last word, like he's trying to impart the incredibility of the statement. "They said it could be one of the best ads of the decade. Definitely your best work yet."

Harry feels strangely giddy. "So?" he demands.

" _So_ ," Liam replies reproachfully, like he's scolding Harry for his manners. "You know how it goes, the more in demand someone is, the higher the price on the pap pics. Currently, you're in pretty high demand..." he trails off, letting Harry fill in the blanks. "Look, I know, you hate paparazzi, but please," his tone turns pleading. "Please, do this."

Harry pinches his bottom lip with his fingers, Liam's words making excitement bubble up his chest. He's always been a good model, one of the current top male models in the industry, but never has he heard someone call one of his ads as revolutionary. "Okay," he agrees, trying not to smile when he hears Liam make a triumphant noise. "Fine, I'll be there later."

"It's going to be so quick," Liam promises, and Harry can hear him typing something on his computer. "You'll go in, take a few photos then you're done, I promise. Then after I'll take you for drinks down at the pub. It's been a while since we've talked about something not related. You in?"

Harry opens his mouth to agree when his phone chimes. "Hold on," he tells Liam, pulling the phone away from his ear to look at the screen. He wipes the screen with his thumb a few times before opening his messages, immediately spotting the new one.

It's from Louis. Nothing but a singular eggplant emoji and a question mark.

Harry feels himself break into a grin. He returns to Liam's call. "Not tonight," Harry tells him, pushing off the safety bar and starting the treadmill again. "I'm busy tonight."

Liam's tone is accusing. "You've been so busy recently," he says. "You gonna tell me about what's got your nights occupied?"

"No," Harry says, turning the speed higher. He feels light, buoyant, both the news about the ads and Louis' text making him feel like he could run forever. "Not yet. Next time, I promise."

"Next time," Liam repeats, before hanging up. Harry opens the message again, sends him the thumbs up emoji, before setting his phone down and focusing on his work out.

. . .

"Fancy seeing you here," Harry greets, grinning. He leans back, lets his gaze linger on Louis--at the expensive leather jacket down he's wearing, at the faint purple bruise on his neck. It was much purpler yesterday, when Harry had sunk his teeth into it, but he supposes Louis' stylist covered it in make-up. After all, Lou had to cover his _own_ love bite with a blend of concealer and foundation.

He tries to ignore the way his love bite twinges when he thinks about it; instead, he takes a sip of his cocktail, tries to school his expression into something smooth. "Didn't know you were coming."

"You didn't ask," Louis replies thoughtfully. He's watching the crowd, watching the writhing bodies and the mingling models and fashion moguls. When he speaks again, his voice is filled with mirth. "You know what, I don't think anyone at this party is as well-dressed as you are."

Harry blushes, looks down at his red floral Gucci suit. "Too much?"

"I think it's perfect," Louis replies, and the look he shoots Harry is bright, mischievous. "Made you so easy to spot when you came into the room."

 Harry raises his eyebrows. "Is there a reason you were looking for me?"

Louis shrugs. "Just wanted to see how long I could go without hearing your annoying voice. Turns out, not very."

"Hey."

"Only teasing," Louis says, his smile growing. He takes a sip from his drink, taking Harry in from head to doe. "Seriously though, you look great."

" _You_ look great," Harry shoots back, not even bothering to hide the way he's raking Louis in, studying the way the black leather jacket fits on him, the way his trousers seems to hug his legs more than usual. He looks like a walking wet dream-- _Harry's_ wet dream--and Harry feels a flash of anticipation and arousal in his stomach.

Louis, when he finally looks back at his face, seems to be basking in the attention. He's got one of those half-smiles in his face, his nose scrunched up in a way that makes him look mischievous, yet adorable. "Have you made the rounds yet?"

Harry nods. "Why?" He teases. "Ready to get going?"

Louis chuckles. "We can't just leave right away," he says. He points at one of the camera men going around, taking pictures. "It's the Miu Miu party, we have to be seen."

Harry sighs. "I know." He moves so he's standing next to Louis, close enough to knock their shoulders together. "I just really don't like industry parties. Especially if they're parties with lots of paps."

"They're not that bad," Louis says diplomatically, taking a sip of his drink. "At least, with a lot of alcohol they're not."

Harry can't help it, he laughs. "How much alcohol have you had, then?"

Louis shakes his head. "Not _nearly_ enough for it to be tolerable. But I'll get there." His eyes are glued to the sea of writhing bodies, dancing to the beat of the DJ.

Harry follows his gaze. "What are you going to do to pass the time? A spot of dancing?"

"Maybe later," Louis answers, his eyes still glued on the dance floor. "Don't really feel like it, currently."

"Aw," Harry coos. He knocks their shoulders again, takes a sip of his drink to hide his smile. "Not looking to pull? Shame, there's a lot of cute guys roaming around."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Please," he answers, turning to look at Harry. "We both know I don't have to dance to get laid tonight."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Awfully sure of yourself aren't you?"

"I'm just saying," Louis' eyes are a myriad of different colours under the strobe lights and Harry finds himself fascinated, studying the play of colour. "It doesn't take much to get him to put out."

He leans forward, close enough that Harry can feel his stubble brush against his skin. "And certainly when he can't touch."

He's gone before Harry can even lift a hand to grab him, disappearing into the mess of bodies. Harry makes to follow him, but then someone is grabbing his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.

"Come on!" Cara, his friend, shouts in his ear. "Don't be a spoilsport, come dance!"

He dances with Cara, and then with Kendall, who introduces him to someone named Alex. Alex is gorgeous--A Burberry model, apparently--and normally, when faced with someone so attractive, Harry would be flirting a bit, but as it is, he's not the one Harry wants to take home tonight.

It takes a while until he spots Louis over Alex's shoulder, laughing and chatting with a dark-haired man who's name Harry can't place. Louis catches his eye, winks, before leaning closer to whisper something in the man's ear, his eyes never leaving Harry's.

But it doesn't matter because later, hours later, when it's late and the guests are wasted and Harry is halfway to drunk himself, Louis finds him, pins him up against the club wall and sucks a mark into Harry's neck. Harry finally lets himself touch, lets himself sneak his hands under Louis' shirt, thumbs at his nipples, and it's no surprise when they end up avoiding the paparazzi and leaving together, hand-in-hand.

. . .

The sound of his doorbell wakes Harry up from his doze, and he takes a minute to roll on his back and blink blearily at the ceiling. He doesn't move, hoping that whoever's at the door is going to leave in a bit. It is, after all, sometime past midnight, and whoever is visiting is either insane or telling him about an emergency.

It's not emergency, because his phone is devoid of any texts and calls.

He gives up pretending to be asleep when the person at the door starts using his doorbell to play something that sounds like 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.

"What," he says when he opens the door and he takes a moment to feel guilty about his rudeness when he sees it's Louis. "Sorry. What are you doing here?"

He opens the door even wider, letting Louis shoulder past him and into the house. Louis squeezes his arm in thanks when he passes, his hand cold against Harry's sleep-warm skin.

"You texted me to come," Louis says, shrugging off his jacket. He's wearing an old white t-shirt, the neckline gaping to show off Louis' gorgeous collarbones. "I'm here."

Harry blinks at Louis' collarbones. "Oh," he says dumbly. Harry _had_ texted him this afternoon, after his boxing session, nothing but the peach emoji. Louis hadn't replied, so Harry had assumed he was busy and wasn't coming.

Seems, however, he assumed wrong.

"Yeah," Louis says, exhaustion colouring his tone. He toes off his shoes, kicks it into a random corner. Harry doesn't have the energy to find it.

"You didn't reply," he says, still looking at Louis' collarbones. "Thought you weren't coming."

"Didn't have the time to reply, sorry," Louis answers. Harry tears his eyes away from Louis' chest area, focuses on his face. He looks grumpy, exhausted--probably the same exhaustion Harry feels right now--with his hair all mussed up and dark circles under his eyes. There's a hint of eyeliner around his blue eyes, making them look brighter, and it dawns on Harry that he must have just come from a shoot.

And the thing is, Harry wouldn't ever pass up the opportunity to have sex with Louis. He's only twenty-two years old, and his dick is way too happy to receive any and all attention, but currently he's so tired, his bones feel like they're made of lead, and it's taking so much effort to just stand here and keep his eyes open.

Back-to-back photo shoots will do that for you.

Louis doesn't look to be faring much better, either. His shoulders are tense, and he looks like he could really blow off some steam, but the way he's blinking makes it clear that all he wants to do is sleep.

"You didn't have to come you know," Harry points out. "If you were exhausted. You didn't have to."

"I know," Louis replies, "but, I don't know. I wanted to. Had a pretty shit day. Figured I could use the stress relief."

 _The stress relief_. Okay. "Come on."

He turns around, quickly making his way back to the bedroom. He can hear Louis following him, his footsteps loud in the quiet of the night, and he doesn't know why it makes him smile, but it does.

The minute they're in the bedroom, Harry collapses onto the bed on his back. Louis follows quickly, flopping down on top of him. He presses his face against Harry's neck, his hands rucking Harry's shirt up and sliding the waistband of Harry's pajamas down.

Harry closes his eyes, enjoys the sensation of Louis' hands on his stomach. It feels nice, especially when Louis presses a kiss into Harry's neck, to the bruise he'd left there earlier in the week, and Harry uses one of his hands to pull Louis closer by the arse.

Louis, however, doesn't do anything more. He's just petting him, sifting his hands through the hair on Harry's lower stomach, and Harry waits for the arousal to build; waits for the sparks to fly up his spine, waits for the slow curl of _something_ in his stomach. He waits for the slow, languid dripping of what feels like honey in his veins, but it doesn't come. Nothing comes.

Instead, he just feels warm, relaxed, hazy--like the halfway point between sleep and awake, when everything is tinged with gold and lined with silver. Feels like a pot of molten gold, churning, dripping, settling.

"You know what," he murmurs yawns, mustering up enough energy to pat lightly at Louis' arse. Louis' breath is warm against the skin of his neck, and it makes Harry feel even sleepier. "Let's just do it tomorrow."

It's a testament to how tired Louis must also be because he doesn't even protest, just rolls off Harry, his hands slipping out from Harry's pajamas. Harry mourns at the loss of contact, but doesn't make any move to try and reclaim it.

"Alright," Louis says quietly. He's still for a moment, staring up at Harry's ceiling, before he's pushing himself onto his feet. "I'll go home then."

"What?" Harry says, brow furrowing. "No, stay. It's late and you're obviously exhausted."

Louis shakes his head. "No, it's fine," he says. "I can drive home."

Harry uses all the energy he has left to push himself up onto his elbows. "Don't be ridiculous," Harry points out, trying not to yawn. "Just sleep over."

"Harry," Louis hedges, and Harry can hear it in his tone, the way he's two seconds away from berating him for breaking one of their ground rules.

But the thing is, Louis' already slept over before, so that ground rule is probably moot at this point.

"Stay," Harry insists. He looks straight into Louis' eyes, tries to look as earnest and convincing as possible. "Really. It's fine."

Louis visibly hesitates, evidently toying with the idea, makes Harry mentally fist pump. Louis' incredibly stubborn about, well, everything, so the fact that he's even considering it means that Harry's already won.

But just to be sure, he tacks on an, "I'll give you a blowie tomorrow, when you wake up."

That makes Louis chuckle. "Alright," he agrees, his features relaxing. He moves to unbutton his trousers, peeling them off his legs. "I'll stay, if only for the blowie tomorrow."

Harry makes a weak triumphant sound before letting himself flop down on the bed. "You know where the clothes are," he says, making a flapping gesture towards the closet.  He hears the quiet snick of his closet door opening and closing, before Louis is climbing onto the bed behind Harry, the shirt on his back a material that's _much_ thicker than the white t-shirt he was wearing.

Harry turns, spots an eyeful of lavender. "I just washed that," he complains, rubbing his eyes. Louis just raises an eyebrow, pulling the sleeves down over his fists and tucking them under the pillow.

"I love it, though," he muses, laying his head on top of his hands. His eyes are half-lidded, dark blue in the darkness of Harry's room. "It's so comfortable. I can take it off if you want?"

Harry does his best to shake his head. "Nah," he says, snuggling closer into his own pillow. "You're the guest, make yourself feel comfortable." He yawns, feeling his eyes shut. "Good night," he says, lifting himself up to get under the blanket. "Tomorrow, I promise."

Louis says something, but Harry doesn't hear it, already too lost in sleep.

. . .

Harry raises an eyebrow when he opens the door. "Wow," he whistles, moving aside to let Louis in. "Looks like you walked straight out of an Adidas store."

"Shut up," Louis says tiredly, rolling his eyes. He kicks off his shoes in the corner, before quickly making his way onto Harry's couch. "I had to."

Harry closes the door and leans against it. "To this extent?" He asks, gesturing to Louis. "I mean, head-to-toe is a bit much, isn't it? Usually brands are okay with you wearing, like, one piece of clothing from them."

Louis groans. "It was a pap walk," he defends himself weakly, pulling his hoodie over his head. Harry tries not to laugh when he sees even his undershirt is Adidas. "Something about that Calvin Klein ad bringing in a lot of interest, so they sent over a bunch of clothes for me to wear. I figured, why not wear everything at once?"

Harry scrunches his nose up to keep from bursting into laughter. "And what did your stylist say about that idea?"

"She loved it," Louis says. "Was ecstatic I was finally interested in the clothes."

"Was she really?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, but, whatever," Louis replies, rolling his eyes. He shifts on the couch, lying in a way that gets Harry's cock very interested. "She can't do anything about it. Now, are you gonna come over here or not?"

Harry pushes himself off the door, walking a few steps onto the couch. Louis spreads his legs wider, and Harry wastes no time fitting himself in between them, one of his hands already pushing Louis' shirt up.

"I'm just saying," he says, as he brushes a he gently thumb over Louis' nipple. Harry loves Louis' nipples, loves how sensitive they are. Loves how pink and round and perfect they are, pretty, tiny numbs he can nibble at and play with. "Maybe you should take it one piece of Adidas clothing at a time."

Louis shivers beneath him, his hands coming to rest on Harry's arse. "If you don't stop talking about this," he threatens, pulling Harry closer, "I'm going to leave."

Harry pinches Louis' nipple lightly, relishes on the little sound Louis makes. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, yeah?" Louis challenges, lifting his chin up in defiance. "Why's that?"

"Cause you want one of the amazing orgasms I give you," Harry replies. He ducks down, sucks the bud of Louis' nipple into his mouth.

"I mean, I've had better," Louis replies, his voice hoarse. He gasps quietly when Harry bites at his nipple, his hand coming up to play with the other one. "You're nothing special, love."

Harry pulls away, licking his lips. "That's not what you said when I had your dick in my mouth," He says smugly, before leaning down to mouth at Louis' other nipple.

He feels one of Louis' hands leave his arse, running over the length of his back to grip the back of Harry's head to hold him in place. Harry feels himself shiver, knows that Louis feels it too. "I was distracted."

Harry pulls away from the other nipple. "Distracted, yeah," he says, grinning, before shifting to press a thigh against the hardening bulge in Louis' trousers. "Distracted by me."

Louis' mouth goes slack. "Okay," he says after a few minutes. His grip on Harry's hair gets tighter, sending a wave of pleasure-pain down Harry's spine, and he whimpers, his eyes shutting halfway. Hair-pulling always gets Harry going. "Can we get back to more pressing matters, please?"

"Pressing, like the way your dick is pressing into my thigh?" Harry manages to joke, but dutifully goes back to making Louis moan.

Later, when they're both fucked out and sated, come drying on their clothes and on their stomachs, Harry raises his head from where it's buried in Louis' neck. "Lou," he says, nudging him lightly.

Louis makes a sleepy noise. "What, Harry?"

"Wanna know what Adidas means?"

"What?"

Harry tries not to grin too wide. "All Day I Dream About Sex." He pauses, leans forward to murmur into his ear. "With you."

Louis huffs out a laugh. "You _definitely_ just stole that from that song."

"You can't prove anything," Harry replies, before singing, " _They_ _say that it's overrated, but they ain't doing it riiiiiiight!_ "

Louis groans and makes to shove him off the couch, but Harry manages to grab his wrist and pull him down as well. They end up play-wrestling on Harry's living room floor, their still-undried come going everywhere, but Harry doesn't even care, not when Louis manages to sit astride him and they go for an enthusiastic round two.

. . .

"Where're you going?" Harry whines, making grabby hands at where Louis is standing by the foot of the bed. It's ridiculously early, just after eight am, and the duvet isn't warm enough to fight the early morning chill. It would be much warmer if Louis was in the bed.

Louis laughs, still gloriously naked. Harry wants to touch his skin."Home."

"Why?" Harry asks, pushing himself up on the bed. He blinks blearily at Louis a few times. "It's early, you told me you literally have nothing to do today."

"I know, but I still have to go home," Louis says, his mouth still curved in a teasing grin. "I have to like, clean and stuff."

"You don't clean," Harry counters, watching as Louis makes his way over to Harry's desk chair, picking up the lavender jumper on it. Harry's started leaving it out for him to wear, because he literally refuses to wear anything else. Once, Harry had hidden it just to see what would happen and Louis had practically turned his closet upside down just to find it.

"I do," Louis shoots back, pulling the sweater over his head. "Sometimes." Harry pouts as the jumper covers his skin.

"You don't _have_ to," Harry presses. He lets his eyes fall onto Louis' bare feet, up Louis' legs, all golden and tan and fucking _hairless_. Christ, he's getting hard just looking at him. "You can just stay here, with me. You know. Chill."

Louis' eyebrow climbs his forehead. "Chill," he repeats incredulously, obviously trying not to laugh. "Right. Have you seen my joggers, Harry?"

"No," Harry lies, trying not to think of how he'd kicked it under the bed earlier, when he'd gone to the bathroom.

"Seriously, Harry," Louis says, crossing his arms. The amused sparkle in his eye hasn't gone away, in fact, it seems to have multiplied tenfold.

"I really don't know where they are," he says, , trying to fight down his smile. He widens his eyes, tries to make himself look as innocent as possible. "Maybe you should just stay here for now."

Louis' eyes narrow playfully. "I know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything."

"I have to go," Louis insists, his mouth still twitching.

"Really?" Harry asks, shifting until his back is to the headboard, the blanket falling nicely over his erection. He gives it his hard cock a look, before slowly dragging his eyes up to Louis. "You gonna leave me in this state?"

Louis huffs, rolling his eyes. "You can take care of yourself," he says, but he climbs the bed anyway. He settles himself on Harry's hips, his arms looped around his neck. "I," he leans forward, bites under Harry's jaw, and Harry moans, his hands coming up to grip his hips, "really have to go."

"Why would you think," Harry pants, as Louis' mouth travels down his neck, "I'd let you leave looking like this?" He sneaks one of his hands under the jumper, pushing the fabric up so he can splay a palm on Louis' back. "So warm, so golden, so," he moans when Louis grinds down on his cock, "smooth."

He rubs a hand down Louis' back, caressing a dry finger against Louis' _hairless_ hole. Louis makes a sound, muffed by the skin of Harry's neck.

"Can't believe you're shaved smooth," Harry pants, drawing light circles on Louis' hole, feeling Louis' hole flutter beneath his fingers. "Smooth, tanned skin."

"It comes with the job," Louis murmurs into Harry's skin. "You do it too."

And yes, Harry does, models tan and shave themselves all the time, but it's _different_ on Louis. Louis is gorgeous all the time, Harry's accepted that, but being newly tanned and freshly shaved just...does things to Harry. Makes him want to wreck him even more, leave marks all over and rub his face against his smooth skin.

And he _has,_ judging by the insane amount of bruises and beard burn marks that Louis' currently sporting. But to be honest, that just makes Harry want to wreck him even _more_.

He didn't even know someone being shaved smooth was a turn on but, well. Apparently it is.

"Fuck," Harry gasps, as Louis grinds down on his hard cock, above the blanket. "You're killing me, here."

"Oh, good, my mission in life," Louis responds, moving his hips in tiny circles on top of the blanket. Harry knows Louis' cock is fattening up under the jumper, can feel it pressed against his stomach.

"If I die," Harry pants, gripping Louis' hips tighter, pulling him closer. "I'd _really_ like to die with my cock in that arse."

"Is that supposed to get me to stay?"

"Worth a shot, wasn't it?"

Louis hums. "Well, it was definitely a better attempt than trying to hide my joggers under the bed, I'll give you that," he says, reaching over slightly to grab the lube and condoms from Harry's bedside drawer. "But still not good."

He ends up staying the whole day. Harry tries not to be too smug about it.

. . .

"Hey," Louis says, nudging Harry with an elbow. He's got his phone in his hand and is waving it in Harry's face.

Harry hums in response, his eyes still half-closed. Good orgasms always make him feel sleepy, and that last one was a particularly _excellent_ one. Five out of five stars.

"Well, thank you," Louis replies, and Harry didn't even realize that he said that out loud. "Always nice to hear from a fan." Harry slaps him lazily--or tries to, Louis manages to shuffle away quick enough so that Harry's hand only hits the bed. He makes no effort to lift his hand anymore, and Louis waits one, two, three seconds before moving closer. He waves the phone in Harry's face again, and Harry squints at it, trying to make out the words.

After a few moments, Louis takes pity on him. "Niall wants to meet me."

Harry frowns. "Now?" He asks. He unsteadily pushes himself up, bracing himself on his elbows.

"Yeah," Louis answers. He sucks in his bottom lip, reading through the text again, before tapping something out quickly. His eyes shift from the phone to Harry, and back to the phone.

"Then go," Harry replies, confused. Even without saying anything, it's obvious that Louis wants to go. He doesn't have to ask permission--it's not like Harry would stop him, or whatever. Louis is his own person, who can make his own decisions.

"Getting rid of me already?" Louis jokes, his eyes fixed on his phone. He bites at his thumb for a few moments, contemplating, before typing something out.

"You know that if I could, I'd make you stay in my bed forever," Harry points out, only half-joking. He stretches languidly, closes his eyes as he feels his muscles stretch. "But you obviously want to go, so go."

When he opens his eyes, Louis is staring at him, phone temporarily forgotten in his hand. His blue eyes are dark, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

"You know," he starts, "if that was a passive-agressive way of trying to make me stay, it was shit."

Harry can't help it, he laughs. "You're still looking at me, aren't you?" He teases, winking. Louis flushes but he still doesn't tear his eyes away from Harry, which makes Harry's cock throb in interest. It's really interesting how having sex with Louis makes his body ignore the biological need for recovery time. "But nah, really, if you want to go, then go. I don't want to keep you."

Louis' eyes dart back to his phone, at where, presumably, a text from Niall sits, and then to Harry, who's still lying on the bed.

The next words out of his mouth are ones that Harry doesn't expect at all.

"Come with me?"

Harry blinks at him. "What?"

"Come with me," Louis repeats, his voice more steady. "I just," he pauses, bites at the inside of his cheek in thought, "feel bad for leaving you."

Harry furrows his brow in confusion. "I mean, you don't have to feel forced to bring me," he points out slowly. "Honestly, it's fine, I could find something to do."

By which he means pouting up at the ceiling for a few minutes, trying to watch a show on Netflix, before giving up and trying to get off with his own hand. Not as fun as what he'd expected, but it's fine. He'd rather do all that than have Louis think he's obligated to bring Harry with him.

Louis, however, stubbornly shakes his head. "I don't feel forced," he insists. "Seriously, I _want_ you to be there. It'll be fun, I promise. Besides, Niall's a great guy, and you guys haven't met properly yet, have you?"

"Well, if you count taking a shoe on the head for him as a proper meeting, then we have," Harry says.

"See? You're off to a great start already."

Harry sighs, rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, trying not to smile. "Fine, I'll come."

And he doesn't know why his chest feels like it's made of helium, doesn't know why his insides feel all warm and fuzzy when he sees Louis' pleased expression, but he chalks it up to his recent orgasm and the fact that Louis looks adorable when he's smiling at Harry, his blue eyes crinkled in the corners.

. . .

"So what you're telling me," Liam starts, quickly moving away as Harry rounds the punching bag, his hands in front of his face, "is that you and Louis are in a relationship?"

"No," Harry exhales loudly, before delivering a few swift strikes onto the bag. He strikes it a bit too hard that it goes swinging on the chain, and Liam quickly sets his stuff down to hold the bag still.

Harry gives him quick nod in thanks before going back to punching the bag. "We're not in a relationship," he says, grunting when he jabs a bit too hard. "We're just chilling."

"Chilling," Liam repeats, still holding the bag steady. "By which you mean having sex."

"Yeah?" Harry delivers a quick combination, before bouncing back on his heels. "We're friends, and we have sex sometimes."

Or, most of the time. A lot of the time, actually, but Harry doesn't think Liam needs to know that.

"That's...literally a friends with benefits arrangement," Liam points out, which makes Harry wince. He _really_ hates the term.

"Yeah," he allows, striking the bag again. He's starting to feel the burn in his shoulders and in his arms, and it hurts, in a good way. "Yeah, it is."

"How long has this been going on for?" Liam asks.

Harry squints at the bag, trying to calculate. "About a month or so? Right after they released the adverts."

"Is that the reason why you disappeared from the Miu Miu party?"

Harry feels his face heat up. "No, Liam," he replies, dignified. "I had more pressing matters to attend to." He tries not to think about how those 'pressing matters' involved pressing Louis into the bed and rutting against him until they both came in their pants like horny teenagers.

Liam just looks amused. "He totally _was_ the reason why you left," he teases, before pausing and frowning. "But seriously, Harry, is that it? Just two friends having sex?"

"Yeah?" Harry drops his hands, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm. "You know I don't have time for a relationship. Neither does he. It works out like this."

Liam's expression doesn't change. "You know it's a slippery slope," he chides gently. "Like having sex, would lead to lots of time spent with each other, would lead to falling in love eventually..." he trails off, looking worried. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows Liam means well, and is really just looking out for him, but he tends to forget that Harry is an adult, capable of taking care of himself and making his own decisions. "It's fine, Liam," he says. "Really. We're two, consenting adults who know how to control ourselves."

"But, like, in films--"

"We're not going to be like those stupid couples in Hollywood films," Harry interrupts, before Liam can go on his tirade. "We're not straight, for one. And two, we're definitely not stupid. We set ground rules and stuff to prevent anything from ever happening."

Never mind that most of them have been broken already. The _point_ is, they have them, they exist, which is more than what can be said for those stupid straight couples in cliché Hollywood movies.

That seems to reassure Liam, because he seems to relax, a bit of the worry falling away from his eyes. "Okay," he says. "Okay. You're right. You'll be fine. You're smart." He sounds more like he's trying to reassure himself than agree with Harry, but Harry doesn't mind. Liam is a huge worrier, and often he just needs time to tell himself that everything will be fine.

Eventually, Liam snaps back. He nudges the bag with his shoulder. "Get back to your workout," he says, and Harry salutes him before going back to striking the bag.

. . .

The adverts go viral.

It happens overnight; this guy Matt, from Buzzfeed, writes an article about it, about how it's refreshing to see an advert like this. In a few minutes, the article has thousands of hits, which graduate to tens of thousands, which graduates to hundreds of thousands. People then start tweeting and retweeting the article, talking about the adverts, and when Harry wakes up, he's got half a million new Twitter followers, almost the same number of calls from Liam (okay, not really), and his and Louis' name on the Worldwide Trending Topics.

"They loved it," Liam explains, when Harry goes to call him up to ask what the fuck just happened. "They're taking it as a political stance, talking about how Calvin Klein and Adidas, both big name brands, are supporting LGBTQ+ rights with this photo, and how it's going to be a catalyst for change in the fashion industry and around the world."

Well, yeah, he gathered as much from the tweets. But he doesn't understand why it's so _viral_. There are tons of other Calvin Klein adverts that show support for LGBTQ+ rights. He's pretty sure Adidas has them too.

"It's `cause it's so blatantly homoerotic," Liam answers, when he voices out that question. "It's just so 'in-your-face' but not in a gaudy way, you know? It's still something classy. Plus," he adds, his tone shifting into something much more teasing, "you and Louis make a gorgeous couple."

Liam then informs him about all the other brands and companies who now want him to model for them, and how there are going to be more pap walks in the near future, to help bring up his profile and make him a household name. Some of these pap walks he'll be doing with Louis--he and Niall have already called each other up and coordinated dates--to bring interest in them even higher. He also talks about the interviews he has to do and the party invites and request for club appearances he's just gotten flooded with. By the time Liam hangs up, Harry's head is swirling with so much new information that he has to lie down on the bed for a bit.

He settles on his side, reaches out to run his fingers through Louis' fringe. Louis' eyes blink open blearily, his gaze hazy and unfocused and Harry pushes down the urge to coo at how cute he looks.

Instead he just smiles at him almost manically. "Good morning, we're viral," he says, and he sounds breathless, exhilarated. "We went fucking _viral_ , Louis."

Harry knows his words have sunken in when Louis' eyes widen. "We did?" There's a disbelieving tone in his voice, like he thinks Harry could be fucking with him.

Harry is definitely _not_ fucking with him."We're fucking viral," he says again, and laughs, because he can't believe it. Hundreds of thousands of people out there have seen their adverts, have _loved_ their adverts.

Louis laughs too, shakily, like he still can't wrap his head around it--Harry can relate--before throwing a leg over Harry and pushing himself up. He doesn't stop until he's straddling Harry, his thighs clamped around Harry's hips.

"We're viral," he says, and there's a smile creeping up his face, spreading until his eyes are crinkled, sparkling blue like sapphires in the early morning light.

Harry feels his own smile widen in response. "We are," he says. He rests his hands on Louis' hips, squeezing the soft flesh gently.

Louis' smile turns a touch dirty. "Wanna celebrate?" He asks, running a hand down Harry's chest to pinch at his nipple.

They spend the entire morning celebrating. And most of the afternoon, too.

. . .

"Harry," Louis says, a few days later, wearing nothing but the lavender jumper on Harry's couch. He takes a bite out of his cheese toastie--one that Harry had gotten out of bed to make for him, because he wouldn't stop complaining about how hungry he was. "Is it okay if I leave a tooth brush here?"

It takes a moment for Louis' words to register. "What?"

"I mean, it's okay if you don't want me to," Louis continues, not even turning to look at Harry. "It's just that I'm here a lot, and we hardly go to my house to fuck anymore, because _apparently_ there's hardly any food there--" Louis rolls his eyes, like he can't believe that Harry has the audacity to complain about the food in Louis' house, when there's _literally only cereal there_ , "--and I'm kind of tired of using my finger?"

Harry almost drops his cheese toastie. _Fuck_ , he's been so rude. His mum would kill him if she knew. Granted, she'd already probably kill him for even venturing into this type of relationship with Louis, but if she knew that he neglected to give his regular sex partner a fucking _toothbrush_ in his house, he'd be double dead. "Oh my God, I didn't even think of, um, I'm such a rude host, I'm so sorry, I didn't--"

 Louis snorts. "Don't worry about it," he says, scooting over to pat Harry on the arm lightly. "You're still a gentleman. Now, can I?"

"Of course," Harry says immediately, still staring at the side of Louis' head. Fuck, he can't believe he's been so _rude_. "I'm so sorry, _of course_ you can leave a toothbrush, Louis, you didn't really have to ask."

Louis' eyebrow quirks. "I'm pretty sure I should've asked," he says, giving Harry a pointed look, but it's gone in an instant, his expression melting into something more relaxed. "But, okay. Thank you."

"It's _really_ not a problem," Harry says, placing the rest of his cheese toastie on his plate and standing up from the couch. "In fact, I'm, uh, I'm pretty sure I have some spare toothbrushes lying around. I'll go get one for you right now."

He doesn't even wait for Louis to reply, just, moves quickly up the stairs and into the bathroom to check under the sink. Weirdly, despite the fact that he _knows_ he's got a dozen spare normal toothbrushes lying around, from like, plane rides and hotel rooms, he can't find a single one. Instead, what he does find is a child's Mickey Mouse toothbrush Gemma had given him as a joke for Christmas last year, so he just grabs that and makes his way back to the couch.

The instant Louis catches sight of the toothbrush, he bursts into such loud laughter that Harry momentarily worries that his neighbours will call the police.

He doesn't even let Harry explain where he got the toothbrush. He just laughs and laughs until he can't breathe, doesn't even try to pay attention to Harry trying to explain or Harry pouting. Which sucks, because Harry has been pouting five minutes before Louis starts to calm down.

"Wow," Louis breathes out, after he's finally done. He wipes a few tears off with the back of his hand, an action that makes Harry pout even more. "I don't know what came over me there, sorry. Give it here, please."

Harry rolls his eyes, but tosses him the toothbrush obediently. "It's the only one I could find," he says, sitting down and turning his head to look away from Louis. He really doesn't mean be surly, but he just feels kind of hurt at Louis' reaction. "You can just bring your own toothbrush the next time you come over, I don't care."

"No need," Louis declares. Harry feels the couch shift, and then suddenly he's got a lapful of Louis, who uses both hands to force Harry to look at him. "This," he waves the toothbrush in Harry's face, "is perfect, thank you."

He presses a light kiss on Harry's nose, before hopping off, presumably making his way to the bathroom to test out his new toothbrush. Harry just stares at his retreating back in confusion.

. . .

"Lou," Harry says softly, settling on his side. It's one in the morning, and he knows he should be falling asleep right now, but despite feeling loose-limbed and relaxed, he just doesn't feel sleepy. "Louis?"

Louis' eyes open slowly. "Hm?"

Harry bites his lip. "Are you sleepy?" He asks, shifting a bit closer to Louis. He places a tentative hand on Louis' hip, spreading his fingers out, feeling the soft flesh give under his fingertips. "Cause I'm just, I dunno. I don't really want to go to sleep yet."

Louis' mouth quirks up in the corner, but he doesn't pull away. "Is this your way of saying you wanna go another round?"

Harry furrows his brow. "No," he says, shaking his head. He moves his hand, uses it to rub little circles on Louis' hip. Louis' skin is soft under his palm--a bit like rose petals--and it's such a nice feeling, touching Louis, feeling how smooth he is. He's just always so soft, and so smooth and so warm, and although Harry really likes having sex with him, he thinks he might like just sitting there and touching Louis a bit more. "No, I just. I know it's late but I just wanna do something."

"Like what?" Louis asks curiously.

Harry racks his brain. "I don't know," he replies, his hand not leaving its perch on Louis' hip. He draws a light circle on it with his finger, laughs softly when he feels goose bumps erupt. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

Louis stretches, his movements slow and languid. Harry's half-expecting him to decline, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when he says, "as long as it's a good movie."

He doesn't say anything else after that, so Harry reluctantly pulls his hand away from Louis' hip, pushes himself out of the bed to fetch his laptop. He extracts it from under the dozens of papers on his desk, before tucking it under his arm and climbing back on the bed.

Harry clicks through a few movies, watches a few trailers, but none of them seem to satisfy Louis, so eventually, after much squabbling and a bit of play fighting, they settle on _The Walking Dead_ , which Harry complains about loudly. He's a bit squeamish when it comes to blood and gore, and he's pretty sure a show with a title such as _The Walking Dead_ would have those in spades.

Sure enough, a zombie gets killed when they're less than ten minutes into the episode, making Harry jump in fear. Louis snorts, obviously amused at Harry's reaction, and Harry's opens his mouth to complain when he feels one of Louis' arms around his shoulder. Louis doesn't say anything, his eyes still fixed on the screen, but he slowly pulls Harry closer, until Harry can rest his head on Louis' shoulder, until he can hide his face against Louis when the bloody bits pop up.

He doesn't fall asleep; sleep falls on him--all at once, like a sudden thunderstorm. He remembers starting the second episode but doesn't remember finishing it; vaguely remembers Louis moving him down the bed, until his head is on the pillow. When he wakes, it's to the sound of Louis' heartbeat in his ear and the feel of Louis' legs tangled with his.

He doesn't move; he just shuts his eyes, tries to match Louis' breathing. It's a few hours later when Louis wakes up, all smiley and content, and he all but demands Harry to make them breakfast. It's a little silly and a little domestic, but it's, well.

It's nice.

. . .

"We're done," Louis sing-songs, when their first pap walk together has wrapped up, throwing his hands up in the air. He's in head-to-toe Adidas again--an outfit Harry heard his stylist _despairing_ at over the phone, to the point of asking him to come back to change into trousers, at least. Louis hadn't paid her any mind, just laughed and said, "Thank you Ellie," before hanging up. Harry doesn't know to be amused or worried at Louis' expense. Stylists can get very terrifying.

"We are," Harry agrees, taking a sip of the iced coffee he'd bought for the shoot. "Do you want to head on over to mine?"

The implication is obviously not lost on Louis, who suddenly rolls his eyes. "Do you not think about anything else?" He asks, but there's a teasing curve to his mouth.

"Sorry, your bum occupies most of my thoughts," Harry deadpans, and gets a slap on his arm.

Louis' still smiling though, which makes Harry smile even more. "Later," he decides, sneaking his hands into the pouch of his hoodie. He looks around, squinting at the street signs and buildings. "There's a cafe a few blocks from here with really good food."

"So?" Harry doesn't know why he feels giddy at Louis' words.

" _So_ ," Louis says primly. He turns to Harry, one eyebrow arched. "Please don't tell me you're going to make me ask."

"I don't even know what you're about to ask," he answers, even as his heart beats faster. "There's a cafe a few blocks from here, and...?"

Louis sighs. "Harry Styles," he says flatly, "do you want to have lunch with me?"

Harry's sure his face lights up embarrassingly. "See," he says, instead of answering. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Louis rolls his eyes. "Come on, twat," he shoots back, no venom in his voice. He starts walking, in what Harry presumes is the direction of the cafe. "Let's go."

"Wait," Harry walking quickly to fall into step with him, following him as he waits for the sign to cross the street. "What makes you think I want to have lunch with you?"

Louis shoots him a smirk. "Well," he starts, tapping his chin like he's deep in thought. "Maybe the fact that you're walking with me right now?"

"What if I wanted to go to a different cafe," Harry replies, trying to affect a haughty expression. He's a model, he's supposed to have _perfected_ this look. "What if it's in the same direction as your cafe?"

Louis scoffs. "Right." They cross the street side-by-side, and Louis grabs his hand, intertwines their fingers together. He doesn't say anything, and Harry doesn't ask; he just grins happily, enjoying the feeling of Louis' warm palm pressed against his own. It's weird, how he can't seem to stop smiling around Louis.

Finally, Louis stops in front of a quaint cafe. He drops Harry's hand, crosses his arms. "Well?" he says expectantly, arching a brow and tapping a foot. He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to; Harry can read his query on his expression, plain as day.

He shoots him a cheeky smile, leans forward to open the door. "After you."

. . .

"Hey," Louis says, beaming happily up at Harry. Even in the relative darkness, Harry can see the crinkles by his eyes, the way his fringe swoops nicely on his forehead. "You came!"

He stands on his tiptoes, brushes a light kiss on Harry's cheek. His stubble is rough against Harry's shaven skin, and he smells of cologne: strong and spicy. "Thought you wouldn't be able to make it."

"I got Liam to reschedule my meeting," Harry replies, smiling back at Louis. He looks around, spots Liam already talking to Niall, laughing, his face squished up in the way that makes him look like a Labrador. "Of course, that means I had to bring him with me, I hope that's alright?"

Louis waves a dismissive hand. "Of course," he says. "Niall wanted to come too, so did my friend Zayn--I don't think you've met him yet, wait."

He disappears into the crowd suddenly, zipping off faster than Harry can watch, and he slips a hand into his jacket pocket, looks around. He offers a wave to Niall, who waves back, grinning--they're proper friends now, having bonded over their love for The Rolling Stones and well, anything that Louis does--before turning back to his conversation with Liam. He's just about to go over and join them when he feels a hand on his arm, getting his attention.

Louis is standing there, the dark-haired man from the Miu Miu party a few steps behind him. Louis introduces him as Zayn, one of Louis' closest friends in the industry, and the current face of Armani. He's a wild Adonis--with features that make you want to pause and stare; his eyes a captivating hazel, his jaw squared, littered with dark stubble. His stare is ridiculously striking, makes Harry want to avert his eyes and fidget where he's standing.

Seriously. He's that pretty.

"Um, hi," he finally gets out, when it's been a while and Zayn hasn't stopped staring at Harry. He reaches a hand out, forces himself to meet his eye. "Nice to meet you."

A muscle twitches on Zayn's cheek, but other than that, he shows no emotion. "Likewise." His grip is strong in Harry's hand.

Louis, from beside Harry, places a hand on Harry's lower back. "Come off it, man," he scolds. "Stop scaring him, please."

Immediately, Zayn's face relaxes into a smile. "He doesn't look like the type that scares easy, though," he argues , and even the way he _smiles_ is ridiculously arresting, like watching an angel descend from a cloud. Harry can understand why he's the new face of Armani.

"You'd be surprised," Louis tells him, and Harry turns to shoot him an offended look.

"Hey," Harry says. "I don't scare easy."

Louis raises an eyebrow. The tiny quirk of his lips lets Harry know he's just teasing. "Three words. _The Walking Dead_."

"I just don't like blood and stuff," Harry argues, huffing. "But I'm fine, with anything else. Remember when I killed that spider for you?"

"Yeah," Louis says, sweetly. "`Cause I was the one who was deathly afraid of it." His hand is warm on the small of Harry's back, and Harry leans closer to him. "You're the bravest person I know."

Harry rolls his eyes, huffing, making Zayn laugh. "You two are cute," he says, his mouth quirked up in a small, fond smile. "Niall was right, it's like you're in your own little bubble."

Louis blushes, two spots of colour appearing high in his cheeks. "We're friends," he says defensively.

Zayn snorts. "Would you say you're _extremely good_ friends?" He asks cheekily, and Louis turns even redder, before sticking his tongue out at Zayn and physically turning his back on him. Zayn just shrugs, gives Harry a little wave, before going off to join Niall and Liam.

"Ignore Zayn," Louis mutters to him when Zayn's gone. His cheeks are still flushed, and he looks to be glaring daggers at Zayn's direction. "He talks a lot of shit."

"Don't worry about it," Harry soothes. He lifts an arm, slings it around Louis' shoulder and pulls him closer. "Let's just enjoy the concert tonight, alright? The Script has always been one of my favourite bands."

He doesn't need to look to know that Louis' smiling. "Mine, too." He tucks himself into Harry's side, and the heat of his body seeps through the thin material of Harry's T-shirt. "I even went to see them in 2009."

"No way!" Harry turns to look at him so fast he gets whiplash. " _I_ went to see them in 2009, too!"

Louis looks up at him, his blue eyes wide. "Where?" He asks, and there's an urgency in his voice, like it's a question Harry needs to get right.

Harry hopes he gets it right. "Manchester."

Louis' eyes widen even further, and his mouth drops open in shock. "Shit, me too!" He exclaims excitedly. He laughs disbelievingly, and the sound of it makes Harry laugh too, makes him pull Louis even closer. "What are the odds?"

"Slim to none," Harry answers, an ear-splitting grin on his face. He's sure it makes him look crazy, but right now, he doesn't even care. "But it happened."

"It did," Louis says. He's quiet for a few minutes, rests his head on Harry's shoulder. And then, "What does it mean, then?"

Harry doesn't know. "That we were meant to meet," he promises solemnly, and he looks up, uses his free hand to blow a kiss up into the ceiling. "Thank you, fate, for letting me be acquainted with the best arse in the universe."

Louis shoves him away. "Shut up," he says, but he's laughing too hard for it to hold any weight. "You're the absolute worst."

"Please," Harry answers, grinning at him. He pulls Louis back in, and Louis goes willingly, fitting himself against Harry's side like he never left. "I'm the best person you know."

It's not long until the concert starts, the band playing their opening song. Louis doesn't pull away from Harry, not even when Harry starts to sweat. He just stays tucked under his arm as the band plays song after song, singing along with Harry, swaying to the music.

He's beautiful under the concert lights--his expression serene, his hair gleaming like someone had weaved stars into it. He looks like art, like every single one of Michaelangelo's charcoal drawings, every single one of his brush strokes come to life. Harry ends up watching him most of the time, watching the way his mouth moves to the words, the way he reacts to the music pulsing around them.

"You alright?" he murmurs into his ear later, when the band starts up _The Man Who Can't Be Moved_ and Louis' eyes shine like there are tears in them.

Louis cuddles closer to him, one of his hands fisted on the hem of Harry's shirt. "`m good," he murmurs back. "I just really love this song."

Harry leans closer, brushes a kiss on the top of Louis' forehead. "Me too," he replies, and it's not even a lie--Harry had been sixteen when he'd fancied himself in love with James from school, that when their relationship ended, he'd listened to the song religiously, in the hopes that it'd inspire him to do a grand romantic gesture to win James back. He never did one, of course, and eventually his romantic daydreams had faded away, but the song always brings back fond memories.

"Well, Harry," Louis says, and Harry turns his head to face him. Louis' looking up at him, his mouth curved in a small smile, and their faces are close, so close that Harry can feel Louis' breath against his lips, that he could tilt his head a just a little bit and _taste_ him. "Shall we sing the chorus together, then?"

Harry wonders what it would be like to kiss Louis.

He doesn't let himself dwell on that thought.

"I say we shall, Louis," he replies, giving him a small smile back, and when the chorus comes they belt it out with no hesitation--they scream the words until there's no more air in their lungs, until their throat hurts. Even then, they don't stop singing, not until the song ends.

Harry pulls away, exhilarated, before launching himself at Louis, wrapping his arms around Louis' waist and burying his face into Louis' neck. Louis laughs, surprised, in Harry's ear, but he wraps his arms around Harry's neck all the same. Harry can still smell his cologne, but it's faint now--it's mixed together with the scent of clean sweat and something else, something that reminds him of lazy mornings and lavender.

Something he's come to associate only with Louis.

When they break apart, they're still grinning at each other, all while the music swells and fades around them. Louis looks to be every bit as breathless as Harry feels, all squinty and _happy_ , before he tucks himself under Harry's arm, presses a kiss on Harry's shoulder.

They stay like that until the end of the concert.

. . .

When he realizes, it's surprisingly normal.

The earth doesn't tilt on its axis, the sun doesn't stop shining. Time passes as usual--the clock ticks, seconds, minutes, hours passing as it's wont to do. There are no fireworks, no orchestra, no falling stars, no birds chirping out a sappy love song the way they do in films. Instead, it's just him and Louis, in the kitchen and a stack of pancakes Harry had whipped up for them.

Louis tells him his pancakes are shit, the worst he's ever tasted, even though he's already eaten two and is currently getting a third. He tells Harry he can do better, which Harry knows is a lie--the last time Harry had let Louis make pancakes, they'd came out lumpy, deformed and slightly burnt on one side.

Harry just keeps laughing at him, laughing at everything he says. He doesn't ever seem to stop laughing when he's around Louis--it's like he makes the world ten times funnier just by existing. Like he just infuses light and laughter into everything he comes into contact with, everything he so much as _breathes_ on.

Louis ends up flicking him with a bit of maple syrup from his fork; Harry frowns when a glob of it gets into his hair. His reaction makes Louis laugh--his eyes crinkling in the corners the way they do when he's truly happy--and he immediately apologizes, reaching for a clean napkin on the table. He leans closer, wipes off the syrup from Harry's curls, and then...nothing.

Nothing happens.

The earth continues to turn steadily, the sun continues to shine. No fireworks, no orchestra, no falling stars. Louis just keeps smiling, his eyes a clear, light blue as he focuses on wiping all of the remaining syrup out of Harry's hair. Harry stays perfectly still, stares at him for so long he goes cross-eyed.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, as he looks at Louis--as Louis leans back on his chair, goes back to eating his third pancake. Butterflies erupt in his stomach, but his heart beats a strong, steady rhythm that gives Harry no doubt as to what else this is, what else this could be. _I'm in love with you_.

And it's like--he's a cliché. He's every single cliché he used to laugh at in stupid Hollywood films. He's dumb and oblivious and he really should have seen this coming, but he didn't. He just, really, really didn't.

It's caught him off-guard, even if, in retrospect it was pretty obvious--aside from the initial, base attraction to him, he's grown to like Louis as a friend. As a close friend, even. He likes Louis' jokes and the way he laughs, his dry wit and sarcasm. Harry likes that he's gentle,  that his eyes are soft and his touch is reassuring whenever he thinks there's something troubling Harry.  He likes the way Louis listens to him patiently, nodding at every important part and asking questions, even if it's just some pointless, unimportant story that's probably shit.

And that's fine--just shows that Louis is a good person who is deserving of Harry's affection--but then Harry also likes it when Louis sleeps over. When he fits himself against Harry's back and throws an arm around his waist, hiding his face in Harry's neck. He likes it when Louis falls asleep beside him, his face open, relaxed, making him look ten times younger. He likes it when Louis wakes up the next morning, his movements hazy, languid. He likes it when they spend the day together--when they watch _The Walking Dead_ barely clothed, when Louis cuddles up beside him and pets his hair, when they laugh inappropriately at random scenes that aren't even funny.

He _wants_ , too; he finds himself staring at Louis' lips more often than not, wanting to kiss him. Finds himself wanting to settle down with him, to buy a house in the countryside and raise three kids with him. To grow old and grey as they sit, hand-in-hand, surrounded by a dozen grandchildren.

It's much too soon, he knows, but when he looks at Louis, his heart beats slow and steady and he's. He's sure.

And that's terrifying.

Louis nudges him with his foot, quickly bringing Harry back to the present. "You alright?" He asks, his eyes even bluer in the morning light. "You suddenly got all quiet."

Harry smiles at him. He hopes it doesn't look weak. "I'm fine," he says, cutting a little triangle on his pancake. "It's just, it's a nice morning, innit?"

Louis searches his face, his eyes flitting from one spot to another, before he gives Harry a blinding smile. "It is," he answers before turning back to his plate. Harry watches as pours syrup onto the pancake, watches, endeared, as he draws a smiley on it with his fork before cutting a small piece and putting it into his mouth, and _God_.

Harry is so gone.

. . .

He doesn't tell Louis. Immediately, anyway.

He keeps it to himself first, squirreling that little piece of information in the corner of his heart. He doesn't know how Louis feels, but there's something in his gut, something that makes him think that this might be a good thing. After all, he could've chosen a worse person to fall in love with than Louis, who is sassy and sly and witty but gentle too; who smiles like the sun and laughs like the stars twinkling in the sky. Who, Harry learns, patrons two children's charities, and whose face just lights up happily whenever he catches sight of children.

He doesn't say anything, even as he and Louis continue what they're doing--meet up, have sex, laugh about nothing in particular. Harry knows he's obvious, knows that his face is probably projecting all the feelings swirling around in his chest, but Louis either doesn't bring it up or doesn't notice. He doesn't seem to mind when Harry watches him instead of watching _The Walking Dead_ , doesn't seem to mind when Harry touches him with more reverence than what their relationship calls for. Doesn't seem to mind when Harry takes to pressing kisses on Louis' skin for whatever reason he can think of. In fact, Louis even seems to like it, a fond look in his eye that makes a something that feels like sunlight bubble up in Harry's chest.

He doesn't tell Louis, but he tells himself he will, in the near future. Louis is sleeping beside him, his chest rising and falling steadily, and he looks so young and so peaceful and Harry is _in love with him_ , and Harry will tell him, soon.

Naturally, because his life is a stupid film, it doesn't really work out like that.

It's around two weeks after The Realization (which is what Harry's taken to calling it) when Louis shows up at his doorstep. Not that that's out of the ordinary--Louis shows up on his doorstep so  often nowadays that Harry has entertained the idea of just giving him a key--but it's one in the morning and they hadn't made any plans to, well, _chill_ tonight.

Louis presses the doorbell incessantly, and doesn't stop even when Harry stumbles out of his bed blearily and yanks open the door to let him in.

"What the fuck, Louis," he hisses, rubbing at his eyes as Louis slips past him. "One doorbell's enough, don't you think?"

Louis pats him in the arm in thanks. "Not really," he answers, faux-cheerfully. "I've just recently decided to make it my life's mission to announce my presence in the most obnoxious way possible." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Immediately, Harry is concerned. "Are you okay?" He asks, following as Louis makes his way to the bedroom, taking off his jacket and dropping it on the floor. Harry picks it up, as well as the pair of socks he's just toed off, holding them to his chest so they don't fall off.

When he gets there, Louis is already on the bed, taking off his shirt. He flings it to the direction of Harry's desk and Harry watches as it lands on top of the heaps of papers he's never bothered to clean.

"Louis?" he asks, depositing the clothes in his arms on the desk as well, before hurrying onto the bed. Louis' already working on removing his trousers, grunting as he tries to pull them off his legs. Harry climbs on the bed and grabs his wrists, stilling his movements.

"Lou?" He asks again, and Louis huffs.

"I'm fine," he says, but his voice says he's anything but. "Can we just fuck now, please?"

Harry shakes his head, tightens his grip on Louis' wrists. "No," he says, stubbornly, even though his cock is already reacting at the sight of Louis, half-naked on his bed. He thinks it's Pavlovian. "No, we're not fucking until you tell me what's wrong."

Louis rolls his eyes. "There's nothing wrong," he says, as he struggles to pull his wrists away from Harry's hands. Harry lets go of them, and he flops back onto the bed, looking annoyed and frustrated.

"Okay," Harry replies, disbelieving. He crosses his arms, does his best to ignore the way his dick is half-hard in his pajamas. "Good."

"Good," Louis parrots back, crossing his own arms. He looks away, his eyes fixed on something to the right of Harry's bed. His face is stoic, his shoulders are tense, and he _obviously_ wants a fuck, but Harry refuses to give it to him. Not until he breaks and tells Harry what's wrong.

After a while, his shoulders relax and he sighs, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "God, you're so stubborn," he says, all the fight drained from his voice. "Like a child."

Harry resists the urge to point out that on a good day, Louis' even more stubborn than he is. Instead, he keeps his arms crossed, raises an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

Louis shrugs, avoiding Harry's eyes. "I had a shit day," he says vaguely. He rolls over onto his stomach, his trousers slipping lower down his thighs. Harry doesn't stare. He _doesn't_.

"What happened?" Harry asks.

Louis shrugs again, the muscles on his back shifting with the movement. "Shit photo shoot," he says, his voice slightly muffled by the bed. "Shit photographer. Refused to take my picture cause apparently I was too thick for the campaign."

Harry feels his heart seize in his chest. "Oh, Louis," Harry says. He moves so he's lying down on his side, facing Louis. He places a reassuring hand on his lower back. "I'm sorry."

Louis looks at him, his visible eye wide and vulnerable. "I mean, I've been called worse," he tells Harry, half his face still smushed on the bed. "And eventually he did take the photos he needed, but..." he sighs, looking down slightly. "You could tell that he didn't want to. Like he was just--" he breaks off, shaking his head, "--everything was just shit."

He sounds so sad that Harry immediately feels the need to gather him up in his arms and cuddle him until he falls asleep. Louis doesn't deserve that, doesn't deserve shitty photographers who have a problem with him. Doesn't deserve people calling him names, all because he looks a certain way. Louis is a good person--Harry's seen the way he acts with his team, with Niall, and on one occasion, with Niall's baby nephew, Theo--and he deserves more. Deserves people who'll respect him, who'll show some modicum of kindness and professionalism, at least, when working with him. He deserves nothing but kindness and happiness and _love_.

Harry firmly pushes that last thought out of his mind. "You didn't deserve that," he soothes, rubbing his hand up and down Louis' back. "Don't worry about that dickhead anyway, he was probably, what, some old balding man with a beer belly trying to resurrect his career or something."

Louis smiles. "Close," he replies, shifting until he's facing Harry fully. "He didn't have a beer belly."

"Yet," Harry says with finality. He uses his arm to pull Louis closer, to let him press his face into Harry's throat. "He'll have one soon."

"Are you cursing the photographer on my behalf?" Harry feels Louis ask his throat.

"Maybe," Harry replies, "or I'm just waiting for karma to work its magic." He runs a hand through the back of Louis' head, carding through his hair. "You alright?"

Louis sighs. "I am now," he says quietly. "Thank you, Harry."

Harry closes his eyes. "No problem, Lou."

They stay like that, just breathing quietly. Harry draws little patterns on the back of Louis' neck, enjoys the feeling of having Louis pressed against him, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes. It's soothing, grounding, and Harry thinks he could fall asleep like this.

And he would have _,_ too, if Louis didn't start pressing soft little kisses into his neck.

"Louis," he says, his voice strangled, when Louis grazes his teeth against a spot on his neck. "Lou."

Louis pulls away, and Harry's relieved to see his blue eyes are bright, happier. "What?"

"I thought you said you were okay already?"

"I am," Louis replies, his mouth curving up into a wolfish grin. "Doesn't mean I don't still want a fuck."

Harry swallows thickly, feeling his cock stir up in interest again. "Louis..."

Louis' face falls slightly. "Unless you don't want to," he says, sounding a bit unsure. "We can just go to sleep, if you want. I know it's late. You probably have stuff to do tomorrow, sorry."

Harry _does_ have stuff to do, but he thinks none of them are as important as Louis here, in front of him, asking for a fuck. "Take your trousers off," he says, moving to take off his pajamas. He pulls off his shirt, too, and when he resurfaces, he finds Louis naked, save for his pants.

Harry's mouth waters. "God," he says, moving to crawl on top of him. Louis just smirks up at him, looking sinful and innocent all at once. A pretty contradiction. "You're probably more sex-crazed than me."

"That's not true," Louis answers, reaching up to hook a strand of Harry's hair behind his ear. "No one's as sex-crazed as you. You're literally always ready to bust a nut."

Harry laughs. "No, I'm not." He lets his eyes roam, drinking in the way Louis looks beneath him, even though he's probably seen it a thousand times before. "Well," he amends. "Maybe around you, I am."

Louis flutters his eyelashes at him. Harry thinks he feels himself get a bit weak on the knees. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Turn around," Harry says, moving away, and Louis obeys quickly, positioning himself on his hands and knees. Harry blatantly stares at his arse, so perky and so gorgeous, runs his eyes over the sinful curve of it. He reaches out, fits both of his hands on his arse cheeks, and squeezes. Louis moans, over-the-top and completely exaggerated.

"Oscar-winning," Harry comments, rolling his eyes, even as he feels his cock jump from the sound. Louis looks at him, over his shoulder, a naughty grin on his face.

"You were taking so long," he says, pushing his arse even further out. "You haven't even gotten me naked, I'm starting to think you don't want to fuck me at all."

Harry pulls down Louis' pants, slipping them off Louis' legs in a quick movement. "Better?"

Louis preens. "Much."

Harry brushes a finger against Louis' hole, if only for the way Louis trembles. He hears Louis moan--a lower, less theatrical sound--and his cock blurts out a bit more precome.

"Are you going to finger me already, or not?" Louis asks, his voice even, but Harry knows him well enough to detect the slight undercurrent of desperation to it. He leans off to the side, quickly grabs the condom and the lube from the bedside table, before dropping it somewhere beside them.

His hands go back to Louis' arse and he spreads his arse cheeks, exposing Louis' hole. Harry's mouth actually waters at the sight of it, so pretty and pink. God, he really is pretty everywhere, and it's a bit too much.

"Well?" Louis demands, pushing his arse towards Harry even more. Harry knows he wants to be fingered; to be opened up until he's squirming and begging for cock, but Harry's a bit distracted, and he wants to put his mouth in places it's never been before.

Like Louis' arse.

"Can I?" He asks, his eyes fixed on Louis' hole. He presses his thumb against it, feels the resistance of tight muscle.

"Jesus Christ," Louis replies, "just fucking finger me already."

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says, and leans forward. He presses kisses down Louis' spine, up until right above his arse. "Can I?" He asks again, letting his breath fan over Louis' skin.

Louis whips his head around. "You," he starts, licks his lips. His eyes are wide, like he can't comprehend what Harry's asking. "You want to?"

Harry tears his eyes away from Louis' arse, meets his eye. "I do," he says surely, and he waits, as Louis looks at him stunned.

Finally, he nods, one jerk of his head, and Harry wastes no time spreading his arse cheeks, and licking a broad stripe against his hole.

That has Louis moaning, his arms buckling immediately until he's leaning on his elbows. Harry hums into his arse, grabbing onto it tightly, pulling it closer to him and burying his face into it. He licks him nice and slow, relishing the taste of Louis on his tongue, the clench of the muscle beneath it. They've never done this before, had never occurred to them to try this, but Harry thinks they really should've, if only for the pretty sounds Louis makes. It's different from his normal sex sounds--it's a bit higher, more desperate, and a _lot_ louder. Harry absolutely loves it.

He traces Louis' hole with his tongue, gives it a little kitten lick before using his teeth to graze at the skin beside it. Louis immediately whimpers, gripping tightly on the sheet and burying his face into the bed, so Harry does it again, enjoying the way it makes Louis whimper. They _really_ should've done this before.

He does his best to suck a love bite on the skin beside his hole, laving over it with his tongue. He pulls back to survey his work, making a pleased noise when he sees the little mark, before leaning closer.

"You okay?" He asks, letting his breath fan over the hole. He blows a quick breath, and enjoys as Louis trembles, his hole clenching around nothing.

"Harry," Louis gasps, pushing his arse further back into Harry's face. "Harry please--"

He gives him a little kitten lick, and Louis squirms. His cock is hanging heavy under him, and he's so obviously turned on, but Harry just. Wants to make sure. "You okay?"

"`m fine," He hears Louis say, his voice strained, and it makes Harry's own cock jump. He uses one hand to squeeze its base, trying not to shoot off just yet. "Harry can you just, please?"

"Okay," Harry answers, and then he's pressing his mouth on Louis' hole again, using his tongue to push past the muscle. Louis wails as Harry fucks him in and out with it, his hole clenching around it.

Harry uses one hand to trail up Louis' legs, easily finding his balls. He rolls one between his fingers, making Louis jerk in surprise, but he grinds back, moans as Harry continues to fuck him in and out with his tongue.

"Harry," he pants, "Harry, please fuck me I--"

Harry pulls away with an obscene noise. Louis whines, pushing his arse back, but Harry stills him, places  a hand on his arse cheek as he reaches for the lube he'd left on the bed.

He quickly slicks up his fingers, pushing one into Louis easily. Louis moans, tries to fuck himself back on the finger.

"More," he pants, as Harry presses the finger in and out of him. "More, Harry, I need--"

"Shh, babe," the endearment slips out accidentally, but Louis doesn't seem to mind, already far too gone. "I've got you." He pulls his finger away, comes back with two fingers, pushing them easily into Louis.

Louis whines, muffling the sound into the bed as Harry spreads his fingers, scissoring him. He presses a kiss on Louis' lower back, tasting sweat and skin. "You're amazing," he mumbles into Louis' skin. "You're beautiful."

He presses another kiss onto Louis' skin, while his fingers quickly find Louis' prostate. He grazes it with his fingers, and Louis jerks, as if electrocuted.

"You're so fucking beautiful, baby," He murmurs, as his fingers press into Louis' prostate, as Louis moans and writhes beneath him. "You're beautiful and you're gorgeous, and I--"

 _I love you_ , he means to say, but stops himself. He doesn't want the first time he says it to be during sex.

"I want you," he finishes, punctuating the statement with a kiss. "I want you so, so bad."

He presses a third finger in, and Louis moans, into the bed. Harry isn't even sure if Louis can hear him, if Louis can even register anything except for the feel of Harry's fingers moving in and out of him, but he keeps talking.

"I don't think there's ever a time when I _don't_ want you," he continues, stretching his fingers out. "I think about you all the time, you know that? Think about your pretty bum and your pretty skin and your pretty lips--"

"Harry," Louis pants, pushing his arse back against Harry's fingers. "Harry, `m ready, fuck me." He wails again when Harry's fingers press down on his prostate. "Harry, _please_."

"Shh," Harry soothes, as he pulls his fingers out. Louis whines at the loss. "Turn around for me, baby."

Louis quickly does as he's told, spreading his legs, and Harry wastes no time opening the condom. He rolls it on his cock and slicks himself up careful not to touch himself more than necessary--he's already so fucking close, and he wants to last, wants to make this good for Louis.

He pushes in slowly, holding the base of his cock still. Louis gasps when the head of Harry's cock makes it past his rim, his hands reaching up to grip onto Harry's shoulders, anchoring him. He's crying--Harry can see a few tears at the corner of his eyes and he reaches up, uses a thumb to wipe them away.

"You okay?" He asks, concerned. His cock is only halfway in but he holds himself still, letting Louis adjust.

"`m fine," Louis hiccups, trying to pull him closer. "Harry." His eyes are squeezed shut, and his lower lip is swollen, probably from him biting down on it, but damn if he isn't still the most beautiful sight Harry's ever seen, damn if Louis isn't the most gorgeous boy he's ever laid eyes on.

Harry wants to touch Louis everywhere, wants to know everything about him, what his skin feels like, tastes like. He wants to be the only one who gets to see Louis like this, wants to be the only one to take him apart and put him back together again. He wants to kiss him; wants to know what his mouth tastes like, wants to know what he tastes like in the morning when he's just woken up, wants to know if he'll taste the same before he goes to sleep. He wants everything with Louis, wants heated sex and quick fucks and love-making and tender touches.

"Harry," Louis says again, his voice desperate. His fingernails dig break Harry's skin, leaving marks, but Harry doesn't care. "Harry, please, can you--"

He doesn't finish his sentence because Harry leans down and kisses him quiet.

Louis' mouth is hard, unmoving for all of three seconds before he opens it, lets Harry lick into it. Harry kisses him deeply as he bottoms out, keeps kissing him as Louis adjusts to the feeling of Harry's cock in him.

Keeps kissing him, even when Louis gasps _move_ into his mouth, keeps kissing him even as he fucks Louis hard, angling his thrusts at Louis' prostate.

Harry kisses him like he's dying for it, and Louis just pulls him closer and lets him.

He's sweet, Harry notes, as he runs his tongue over the crevices of Louis' mouth, as he nips at Louis' lower lip. Louis tastes sweet and Harry's head spins at how overwhelming it is. It's addicting, the feeling of Louis' mouth beneath his, the sweetness of his mouth, mixed with something heady and intoxicating, like cherry wine, and Harry has only kissed him once but he already knows that he won't ever get enough, knows that he won't ever stop wanting to kiss him.

Knows that he loves kissing Louis, just as much as he loves every part of Louis.

Harry breaks away for air, gasping. He keeps fucking into Louis, his thrusts hard, and he's close--he can feel his orgasm coiling in his belly, his balls tightening with every thrust. He staves it off, focuses on Louis--focuses on wrapping a hand around Louis' cock, on making him come.

"Baby," he says. "Lou, come for me."

Louis whines, but one of his hands wrap around Harry's. It takes one, two, three more strokes before Louis is keening, his orgasm spilling all over their joined hands and down his stomach. Harry fucks him through it, fucks him until he comes down, sweating and panting, before he buries himself to the hilt and comes, inside Louis.

It's a while until he comes to, and he lifts himself up, from where he collapsed on top of Louis. Louis' drawing x's and o's on the back of Harry's neck, and his hand falls when Harry peels himself away, rolls onto his back beside Louis.

He stays panting at the ceiling, his mind spinning. He's tired, but he feels like his heart is pumped full of helium, feels like he could float away at any minute now. He grips at the sheets beneath him, just to make sure he stays--he doesn't want to float away just yet, wants to enjoy this post-coital haze, wants to cuddle Louis and fall asleep and wake up next to him.

He deals with the condom first--tying it and disposing of it somewhere on the floor--before he reaches for a bunch of tissues and cleans Louis up. Louis smiles at him, sleepy and content as Harry wipes the come off his stomach, and snuggles into his chest when he's fully clean and Harry's thrown away the tissues.

Harry cards a hand through Louis' hair. "Lou," he murmurs softly, and he's about to say something-- _you're amazing_ , maybe, or _I love you_ \--but Louis beats him to it.

"Thank you, Harry," he says, beaming up at Harry. There's a constellation in his eyes, one that Harry wants to learn, and Harry feels his heart soar at the sight. "Thank you so much, I--"

He breaks off, yawns, before snuggling closer to Harry. "I'm so lucky to have you," he says sleepily into Harry's chest. "You're a good friend."

And Harry--

Harry feels his helium balloon heart pop, feels his stomach drop to the floor like lead.

 _A good friend_.

Surely by now, Louis knows, that what Harry feels for him is far from platonic. Surely he's aware that friends don't _do_ half the shit they do. Friends don't cuddle each other until they fall asleep, or hold hands when they go out for lunch. Friends don't kiss each other the way they do, or even _look_ at each other the way they do.

And Harry knows that it's different, because of their arrangement, but surely Harry has been obvious enough? Surely Louis has taken notice of the way Harry looks at him, or the way Harry touches him. Surely he's knows that it's not normal platonic behaviour, the way Harry texts him _I miss you_ every time they can't meet up, or the way Louis replies _I miss you too._

It's not normal.

 _He knows_ , a voice in Harry's brain says quietly, clearly. _He knows you're in love with him. He's trying to let you down easy._

And that's. Fuck.

It makes sense--maybe Louis had caught on, but didn't want to bring it up. Maybe he'd been looking for a way to let Harry down gently, subtly; to remind Harry that they're just _friends who fuck_ , nothing more, nothing less. Maybe he realized, after his orgasm, that he could thank Harry _and_ reinforce that they're nothing more than friends.

That they'll _be_ nothing more than friends.

Louis presses a soft, sweet kiss onto his chest, and Harry shuts his eyes, tries not to get too lost in the sensation. _I'm in love with you_ , he wants to scream, as the point in his chest tingles with warmth. _I'm so fucking in love with you_.

But he doesn't.

He just closes his eyes, tries not to cry as he presses a kiss into Louis' forehead. This isn't normal friend behaviour, but Harry's always been weak, especially in the face of his feelings. "Yeah," he says, and if his voice is shaky, Louis doesn't call him out on it. "Yeah. You too, Lou."

. . .

Being in love with someone who doesn't love you back, Harry decides, is the absolute worst feeling in the world.

It's worse than having to go to the hospital for a broken bone, or being sick with the flu. It's worse than having to do a hundred burpees in a row, and that's saying something, seeing as Harry fucking _hates_ burpees.

And he's not being dramatic--every time Louis looks at him fondly, it feels like his heart is being cleaved cleanly into two, like it's being stepped on and splintered into half a dozen pieces. It hurts when they cuddle and Louis fits himself perfectly around Harry, like he was always meant to be there; it hurts when they have breakfast together in Harry's kitchen and Louis smiles at him over the food. It hurts when they're watching _The Walking Dead_ and Louis grabs his hand, measures it against his own, it hurts when he wakes up and sees Louis dressed in the Harry's favourite jumper, brushing his teeth in Harry's fucking bathroom.

It hurts because to Harry's so in love with him, but Louis clearly doesn't feel the same. To Louis, he's just a friend.

Harry feels pathetic, so fucking pathetic. Louis has let it be known that he doesn't love Harry like that, but Harry can't stop hoping, can't stop praying and wishing that he'll change his mind, eventually. He's weak, he's so fucking weak that he can't stop himself from sending Louis a text, asking him to come over, can't stop himself from pressing his mouth against Louis' skin, kissing him way too softly for the sort of arrangement they're supposed to have.

Can't stop himself from murmuring  _I love you_ , into Louis' shoulder when he's asleep, his breathing calm, even.

At the back of his mind, he knows that he should probably pull away; should probably stop wasting his time on things that will never happen, and start trying to move on. But then Louis looks at him--eyes like the clearest day--and Harry knows that he won't ever be able to give this up, give  _him_ up, no matter what. They haven't known each other for very long, but Harry already knows that Louis is One Great Love of His Life, and that he'll never be able to love someone as much as he loves Louis.

So he just smiles at Louis, forces himself to enjoy every part of Louis he can get, every part of that he's allowed to have. Because one day, he knows, he won't have this--won't have Louis lying on his chest or huddled up under the duvet in his bed. One day, Louis will leave him in the dust, find someone better, and Harry wants to at least remember when Louis was in his arms, content and happy.

 

. . .

"I'm pathetic, Li," Harry whines, slumped over on Liam's couch. He pouts at his empty glass, wishing that the tequila would magically appear in his glass. He's not _supposed_ to be drinking tequila, since he has a shoot tomorrow and they want him to be all lean and shit, but fuck it. He's drunk and sad and his feelings seem amplified under the haze of tequila, which is why he needs another shot of tequila.

Or maybe two. Or three. He's lost count.

"Liam," he says, running a hand down his face. One of his fingers accidentally brush on love bite Louis had left on his neck the night before, and he winces, wills himself not to remember the feeling of Louis' teeth against his neck, the feeling of his skin pressed up against Harry. Wills himself not to remember how he looked when he came inside Harry, his eyes shut, his mouth dropped open in a moan.

Fuck, he's so pathetic. He can't even keep a lid on his fucking feelings.

"Liam," he calls again, and this time, Liam appears in the doorway, looking at him skeptically. He's got a glass of whiskey in his hand, which is probably a much classier choice, but Harry just wants tequila. Tequila is supposed to make you happy.

He doesn't know why he wants to cry.

"Liam, I'm pathetic," he repeats, reaching out for Liam's glass of whiskey. Liam holds his glass as far away from Harry, settling beside him on the couch.

"You're shouldn't be drinking," Liam reprimands. "You have a shoot tomorrow, remember?"

Yes, Harry remembers. He has a fucking shoot tomorrow and a fucking dinner to attend right after and he can't remember where he'd placed the tequila bottle and he's tired, tired of events and photo shoots and everything. He just wants a week to himself, a week to curl up in a ball and sleep off his exhaustion and his heartbreak. He just wants to stop _feeling_ , wants to forget the feeling of hurt and sadness that seems to have seeped into his bones and weighed him down.

But sleeping would require a bed, and currently, Harry can't even look at his bed without being reminded of Louis, and that's. Fuck.

He bursts into tears.

He feels Liam startle beside him, and then there's a hand on his back, pulling him closer. Harry buries his face into Liam's shoulder, breathes in the comforting scent of his best friend, and just keeps crying.

"Harry?" Liam asks, worried. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry sniffs into Liam's shirt. "I'm pathetic," he says again. They had made ground rules to prevent this from happening, and Liam had even warned him to be careful, but Harry had still gone and fucked everything up anyway. Harry had gone and fallen in love with Louis, even though he wasn't supposed to.

"Hey," Liam soothes, rubbing comforting circles into his back. "No, you're not. Harry, look at me."

Harry pulls away, uses the back of his hand to wipe the tears away from his face. "Sorry," he croaks out, looking down on his lap. "I didn't mean to freak out on you like that."

"It's fine," Liam reassures. He reaches down and comes back with tequila bottle--oh, so _that's_ where Harry had put it--before pouring out a shot into Harry's empty glass. "Usually it takes a lot more to get you to weepy drunk."

"I know," Harry says forlornly. He downs the tequila immediately, feeling the burn in his throat--it doesn't hurt, not as much as his heart, anyway. "I'm just. I'm _sad_ , Li."

"What's wrong?" Liam asks, concerned. He hesitates, then pours another shot of tequila into Harry's glass. "Tell me."

Harry pauses, unsure, but Liam's brown eyes are kind and worried and familiar, so familiar that something tugs at Harry's chest, that all the feelings Harry's been trying to suppress comes crawling back up his throat.

"I'm in love with him," he says, and the way Liam draws in a sharp breath means that he knows who Harry is talking about. "Li, I'm in love with him, and he doesn't love me back, I--"

He shuts his eyes, clamps mouth shut. Knows that any other words that supposedly follows that statement is unnecessary; the crux of the matter is already there, out in the open.

He's in love with Louis.

Liam is silent for a few moments, thinking. "I know," he says eventually. His brown eyes watch Harry carefully, like he's a startled animal that could bolt at anytime.

Harry's breath leaves his lungs. "How?"

"It was obvious, mate," Liam says kindly."Anyone with eyes could see it in the way you look at him." He takes a sip of his whiskey, still watching Harry carefully. "I'd never seen you look at anyone like that before. It's like, to you, he's the only thing in all the universe that matters."

Liam's words hit him like a punch to the gut. Harry swallows thickly, casting his eyes down at his lap. "It doesn't matter, anyway," he says. He twists a finger around a loose thread on his jeans, pulls it off. "He doesn't love me back."

God, why isn't this tequila working? He's supposed to be happy and drunk right now, not crying about unrequited love like a weepy baby who can't deal.

"What?" Liam's voice comes out disbelieving. "But I thought, like..." he trails off, his brow furrowed. "You don't know that for real, I mean, he looked just as into you. Like, in The Script concert and stuff."

Harry shakes his head, wills himself not to cry. "We fucked a few weeks ago." Liam looks a bit disgusted at Harry's words, but he doesn't interrupt. "After, he--he told me that--" he shuts his eyes, "--that I was a good friend."

Saying the words out loud dredges up even more hurt, and he bites his lip, trying to ignore the way his chest suddenly seems two sizes smaller for his heart. He's just so tired of crying, tired of thinking, tired of _feeling_. He almost wishes he'd never met Louis at all.

(Almost. Despite everything, Harry doesn't think he'll ever regret meeting Louis at all.)

"But I could've sworn he loved you back," Liam says, sounding even more confused. "Even thought it was a proper fairytale ending for the both of you."

Harry shrugs sadly. "Yeah, well, it's not." He groans, rubs his eyes with his palms. "Fuck, Liam, this is ridiculous. I shouldn't be crying over a boy like I'm thirteen all over again." He's not supposed to be this hung-up on Louis; he's not supposed to be this hung-up on anyone. He wasn't supposed to fall in love at all.

"It's okay to cry, you know," Liam says softly, clinking his glass against Harry's. Harry looks at the tequila still in the glass and downs it, relishing the burn of it. "I mean, shit happens. Everyone falls in love with people they aren't supposed to fall in love with."

Harry traces a finger around the rim of his glass, strangely comforted. Liam's words, for some reason, make Harry feel better. It's a cathartic thought, the fact that there are hundreds of people out there who are--or was--in the same boat as him. He's not alone. "Just wish I knew what to do, `s all. How to stop hurting."

Liam looks at him, his brown eyes sad. "But you _do_ ," he says. "You know the logical thing to do, anyway. Or at least, what I'd tell you to do."

Dread creeps ups Harry's throat, wraps around it like a vice. He knows _exactly_ what Liam's asking. Hell, if he thinks about it, Liam's right. He's not dumb, and he knows what he needs to do.

They talked about it, after all. Any one of them can end their arrangement.

He needs to. But he doesn't want to.

"I'm your best mate," Liam continues, still watching Harry carefully. "And, quite frankly, an outsider looking in. To me, it's clear what you need to do."

Harry swallows thickly. "I know."

Liam smiles at him kindly. "I won't force you, though, if that's what you're worried about." He pours Harry another shot, before raising his own glass. "I think, in the end, it's still up to you to decide."

Harry doesn't say anything to that, just clinks his glass against Liam's and takes the shot.

. . .

"Lou," Harry says one day, when they're curled up in Harry's bed, watching another episode of _The Walking Dead_. He tries not to sound too nervous; he doesn't want Louis to suspect that something's wrong. Doesn't want Louis to ask him why he's nervous, because if he does, Harry's sure the weak line he's drawn up to separate his feelings from everything else will blur entirely, and he'll end up telling Louis how he really feels.

And then Louis will want nothing to do with him.

"Hm?" Louis asks, shifting so he can lift his head from Harry's chest. He's got a little curl in his fringe today--one that Harry's spent the afternoon playing with, and his blue eyes are clear, shining like cut glass. He's beautiful. Harry's heart actually aches at the sight. "What is it, babe?"

 _Babe_. Harry tries to calm his racing heart. Louis calls everyone babe, doesn't he? "I was just wondering," he starts off, his hand working on its own to twirl his finger through the little curl in Louis' hair, "why you don't want a relationship?"

Louis' faces doesn't darken, like Harry was expecting, which he takes as a good sign. "Just don't want one," he says simply. He reaches up, intertwines his fingers with Harry's. "I'm busy, and maintaining a relationship takes so much work. I don't want to be the reason the relationship fails, you know? I don't want to half-ass it." He shrugs. "After all, I do want to be married and have kids one day. So I want my relationship to be something more long-term, you know?"

Harry bites his lip, tries not to blurt out _me too_. Instead, he asks, "So what if you find someone now? Someone you want to be with, at this moment?"

Louis looks amused. "Then I find him," he says, "and hope he'll still be there when I'm less busy."

"And if he's not?"

"Then I don't think he was meant for me, you know?" Louis shrugs. He pulls his hand away from Harry's, reaches out to pull at one of Harry's curls. "What's with all the questions today, Curious George?"

Harry tries to shrug as nonchalantly as he can. "I dunno," he says. "Guess I just--" he makes a vague gesture with his hand, hoping that Louis gets it. "Have you ever been in love, Louis?"

If Louis is taken aback by the change in topic, he doesn't show it. "Yeah," he answers easily, not even batting an eye. "Yeah, I have." His expression changes. "Why are you asking?"

Harry tries not to laugh derisively, tries to stop himself from screaming _I'm in love with you and it fucking hurts_. "I was just wondering," he says, choosing his words carefully. "`Cause, like, you've always seemed like the type of person who doesn't fall in love as easily, you know? Like, you don't even let anyone kiss you."

He pointedly doesn't say _but you let me_ , pointedly doesn't bring up their kiss. Pointedly doesn't say how, when Harry kissed him, Louis kissed him _back_.

Louis averts his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I, uh, reserve that for people who mean a lot to me." Harry's heart quickens in his chest, and he wonders if Louis can feel it from where he's tracing a finger around the swallows tattooed on Harry's chest. "I don't really fall in love that often, but when I do, it's pretty--" he laughs self-deprecatingly. "Pretty stupid. I get ridiculously cuddly and clingy and I just do everything in my power to keep the person happy, you know?" He meets Harry's eye, and there's a smile on his lips. "I just want to give them everything that's special in the world."

Harry tells himself to calm down. It's not him, after all. No matter how hard he closes his eyes, no matter how hard he wishes and hopes, it's never going to be him. "Oh," he says dumbly. "That's nice."

"Yeah," Louis says. He seems to be watching Harry carefully, looking for something in his face. "I'd like to think so."

Harry lifts his hand, places his fingers by the corners of Louis' eyes. He feels Louis smile, his face shifting beneath the pads of his fingers. "Just one more question," he says, and he tries his best to make his voice sound light, airy. Teasing. "What would you do if," he does his best to look unbothered by the question, pasting on a convincing, teasing smile, "if I told you I fell in love with you?"

Louis' grin doesn't even falter. "I'd tell you you were insane, Harry Styles," he answers easily, his eyes still crinkled in mirth.

And Harry didn't think his heart could break into a million more pieces, but, well. It does.

He's saved from reacting, though, because Louis is pulling away, lying back down on Harry's chest. "We should get back to the show," he says. His skin is warm against Harry's. Harry tries not to focus on it too much.

"Yeah," he agrees, keeping his voice level, and turns back just in time to watch Norman Reedus blow a zombie's head off.

. . .

He realizes that this is probably a little bit unhealthy.

Even though Louis is great--he's nice and gentle, and he never treats Harry like shit (unlike some of his old boyfriends)--it's still not good for his well-being, clinging onto Louis like this, hoping for something that will never happen. It just gets harder and harder for him to pull away, to remind himself that this is nothing every time they see each other. It gets harder and harder for him to accept that this is only temporary, ephemeral at best, and the only way this can end is with them as friends, nothing more.

Add to that is the fact that ever since their advert went viral, he's had more fans than he could ever imagined, tweeting about how he and Louis are just 'the cutest couple' and how they are 'relationship goals'. Harry would tweet them back and tell them how they should not aspire to have a relationship like this, where he gets his heart broken all the time, but one: he doesn't know if he's allowed to say that on the internet, and two: his tweet would probably get back to Louis somehow.

It sucks.

He hadn't meant to fall in love like this, hadn't meant for it to consume him whole. Hadn't meant to give his heart away to a boy with caramel hair and golden skin who won't ever love him back. Who probably has the entire world at his feet, who could make people trip over their heels for him with a bright smile and one witty quip.

But then again, how could he not? Harry had always been the type of person to look for adventure; to seek out excitement and thrill. Louis had just been like that--he'd always had a way of making things feel big, of making things grand and exhilarating. He'd always managed to inject some level of excitement in even the most mundane things, even if it's just having breakfast with Harry or watching one episode of _The Walking Dead_.

But he was always comforting, too--he reminds Harry of being _almost home_ ,  of getting off on the train station in Holmes Chapel, the familiar sights of where he grew up surrounding him. Of the sudden calmness that rushes over him when his mum's house slowly comes into view, the way his steps become lighter and his smile becomes easier when he's walking up the front porch and ringing the doorbell. Of the way his heart settles when his mum throws the door open and envelopes him in a hug.

Louis had always felt big, exciting yet at the same time reassuring, comforting in the only way being _almost home_ can be. And Harry hadn't stood a chance.

So he hatches a plan.

He starts off simply: he stops texting Louis, stops asking him to come over. It hurts, having to distance himself, but he resolutely doesn't give in--he knows it's for his own good, knows that he _needs_ to do this, in order for his feelings to disappear and for him to be able to move on. Proximity promotes intimacy, right? Therefore alienation should do the opposite of that. Or so Harry hopes.

Then he tells Louis that he's busy, or he has a headache, every time Louis texts, asking if they can hang out. It's a bit harder having to deny Louis of things--there's still something in him that just wants to give in, that just wants to say _okay_ and spend the rest of the evening relearning Louis' curves with his mouth, but Harry knows that he can't, knows that even though it hurts now, this is so much better for him in the long run.

And then after that, it's easier. It's easier because Louis eventually doesn't ask to come over; it's easier because eventually Harry just ends up alone on his king-sized bed, again. Harry still misses Louis, yeah, and he still keeps the toothbrush on the holder, still leaves the lavender jumper on his desk chair out of habit, but so far, he thinks he's doing well. He's moving on, healing himself. The way he's supposed to.

Which is why, when Kendall invites him to a party, three weeks after he and Louis last saw each other, Harry only hesitates a few minutes before he agrees to come.

. . .

The club is crowded, packed with so many people that Harry can't even walk five steps without his elbow bumping into someone else. It's one of Kendall's sister's parties--Harry doesn't really know what for, he thinks maybe a birthday or something--but they've got great music and free-flowing alcohol and that's all Harry needs, really.

He sits with Kendall and some of their mutual industry friends at the table, laughing and chatting together. They don't talk about work, which he's grateful for. He doesn't need to be reminded of his advert, because then he'd be reminded of Louis, which is the complete opposite of his goal tonight.

It's not long until he gets tipsy, the alcohol coming to their table endlessly, Kendall pouring him shot after shot, telling him to _live a little, H_. Harry suspects she's making him drink all these as a form of  revenge, because he's been blowing off her coffee dates these past few months to hang out with Louis, but it's fine. He'll take it.

"H," Kendall says later, when she's gotten tired of making Harry drink the shots and is now just looking at him. She's a little bit drunk herself, and Harry can see little beads of sweat on her hairline, but her make-up is still flawless. Harry can't stop staring at her sparkly eye shadow. "H, look."

She points over him to where a guy is standing, blatantly staring at them. It takes a while before Harry manages to place him--Alex, the Burberry model he'd met at the Miu Miu party all those months ago. Harry swallows, lifts a hand to wave at him, and Alex waves back, an amused look in his eyes.

Kendall elbows him. "Well?" She demands. "Go to him! When's the last time even you got laid?"

 _Three weeks ago,_ Harry doesn't say. He's not supposed to think about that, he's not supposed to think about anything related to Louis at all. He's not supposed to think about how, the last time they saw each other, Louis had cupped his cheek, smiled devastatingly at him, and pressed a kiss on the corner of his mouth before leaving. Nope.

Kendall must take his silence as an answer to her (frankly invasive) question because she's huffing, quickly shoving Harry out of his seat. "Go!" She urges. "Have fun! But not too much fun! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Harry thinks her instructions are rather vague. He doesn't really know what it is that she wouldn't do.

It's the alcohol in his veins that make his feet move, that makes him push through the crowd of people and walk towards Alex. Alex seems to realize that Harry's _actually_ going to him, because his mouth is quirking up in a small smile, and he's weaving through the crowd effortlessly to get to him.

They meet halfway. "Hi, Harry," Alex greets, smiling as Harry observes him. He's got green eyes and dirty blonde hair and sharp cheekbones. He's tall too, a few inches taller than Harry, and he's obviously toned to perfection, judging by the way his biceps bulge out of his dress shirt. He looks ridiculous, in the way marble statues are ridiculous, and he's _wrong, all wrong_. "How are you tonight?"

"Good," Harry says slowly, curling in on himself. He's too _something_ \--too unreal, maybe--and he's the complete opposite of what Harry wants, of _who_ Harry wants right now. Harry wants a boy a few inches shorter, with a caramel fringe and three freckles on his cheek, wants a boy with blue eyes that  reflect light like stained glass and a wolfish grin playing on his mouth. He wants the a boy who likes to steal his lavender jumper every time he comes over, wants a boy who hogs all the covers at night and demands breakfast when he wakes up. He wants _Louis_ , but this guy isn't Louis.

But that's the point, isn't it?

"Wanna dance?" He asks boldly, and the words don't roll off his tongue as effortlessly as they're supposed to, but Alex grins brightly and leads him to an empty spot on the dance floor.

It's all wrong, the instant they start. Alex is too tall and Harry is too drunk and there are too many people around them and it's hot, too hot in a way that has Harry suffocating, unable to draw in enough air. Harry's head spins and Alex is too hard under his fingertips, lacking the curves and soft flesh Harry loves so much, and he _can't do this_.

He rips away from Alex, his fingertips burning. "I can't do this," he gasps desperately. There might be tears in his eyes. "I can't _breathe_."

He doesn't know what happens next, all he knows is that one minute, he's standing in the middle of the crowded dance floor, his vision spinning, and the next he's outside, leaning against the building.

There's a hand on his shoulder and he jumps reflexively.

"Hey," Alex soothes, leaving his hand there. It's warm against his clammy skin and it makes Harry feel just a little bit better. "You alright?"

Harry takes a gulp of air. "Yeah," he manages to get out. "Sorry `bout that."

Alex laughs quietly. "It's alright," he answers. "It was crazy in there. Didn't expect so many people on the dance floor either."

They're silent for a few more minutes, Alex's hand on his shoulder and Harry taking in deep gulps of air, marvelling at how his lungs are working again. It's only when his heartbeat has receded from ears does Harry straighten up and shoot Alex a wobbly smile. "I, um, _thank you_ , first of all, for, uh, saving me in the club, but. I think I'll just head on home now."

"I'll drive you," Alex offers immediately, like a Disney Prince. Harry tries not to scoff.

"It's fine," he says instead, waving a hand. "I can get a cab or summat."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "How?" He asks. "It's one thirty in the morning, and it's going to be really hard to get any cabs to stop for you at this time of night. _Plus_ , there are loads of paparazzi out front, do you _really_ want to fight through them just to get to your cab?"

Harry swallows. When he puts it like that... "Show me to your car then."

Alex doesn't initiate conversation on the drive to Harry's house, which Harry is glad for. He doesn't feel like talking much, he just wants to stare out the window and watch the lights pass him by. Alex has to call his name three times before Harry realizes they've arrived at his house, and he sheepishly apologizes and gets out of the car.

He invites Alex in--not for any malicious reasons; Harry is a nice, polite boy and he wouldn't make someone leave when it's just past two in the morning--and Alex toes off his shoes by the door, lines them up right next to Harry's. He hangs his jacket in the closet too, instead of dropping it on the floor for Harry to pick up, and the action shouldn't make a lump grow in Harry's throat, but, well. He's drunk and a bit weepy.

They make small talk over tea, discussing their work and their hobbies, but then Harry's eyes start to droop and Alex takes it upon himself to physically lift Harry up from the table and wrangle him into bed. _He's a Disney Prince_ , Harry remembers thinking, as Alex lifts the covers and tucks him in properly, making sure he's got a glass of water on his night table. He's a Disney Prince, and Harry is really drunk and the bed's too big for one person that's the reason why he grabs Alex's wrist when he's about to leave, the only reason why Harry mumbles _stay_ before falling asleep.

. . .

There's someone on his doorbell.

Like literally _on_ his doorbell. There's someone fucking leaning on it, making Harry's head pound like there's a stampede of elephants in his brain.

He rolls out of bed clumsily, taking a moment to sit on the edge and breathe. He mentally thanks Alex for insisting he leave a glass of water by his night table, and he downs that quickly before pushing himself off the bed and making his way to the front door. A quick glance at his clock shows it's just barely past eight in the morning, and Harry doesn't know who in the world would disregard social conventions and make a house call at fucking _eight in the morning_ , when people are still sleeping, but whoever that is will receive a long berating from Harry, possibly a curt answer or two.

Maybe it's Liam. Liam has always claimed to wake up with the sun, and has no qualms about waking Harry up at ridiculously early times of the day.

He leans against the entryway, grits his teeth against the noise as his hand scrambles against the lock. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he manages, making a small, triumphant sound when he hears the lock click. He pulls open the door, ready to whine, but stops short when he sees that the figure in the doorway is decidedly _not_ Liam.

"Hi," Louis says brightly, lifting his shoulder off the doorbell. Distantly, Harry is aware of the stupid ringing noise falling silent, like he'd wanted, but he can't focus on that, not when Louis is standing in front of him for the first time in three weeks, looking well-rested and beautiful that Harry's heart physically aches at the sight.

"Sorry," Louis adds, unapologetic. "Had to wake you up somehow. I know you sleep like the dead."

Harry blinks at him. "What are you doing here?" He asks, wincing when his voice comes out hoarse. He's still not sure if this is real, or if this is just some weird fever dream his hung-over brain came up with. Might be the latter. Harry makes a mental note never to drink while sad again.

"Came to visit you," Louis replies happily, looking far too awake for eight in the morning. Far too cuddly, too--he's dressed in his softest hoodie, which makes Harry want to scoop him up and press him against his chest. "Also you look like shit." Louis cocks his head. "Let me in?"

Harry blinks at him, nods dumbly and moves away from the door. Louis slips past him, kicking his shoes off, before ambling into the kitchen, his hands in his hoodie pocket. Harry watches as he pushes the fruit bowl a bit to the side, watches as he hoists himself on the counter, his heels kicking at Harry's cabinets. There's something in the way he moves--the fluidity, the grace, the familiarity he has with Harry's home--that makes Harry just want to sit and admire him.

"Well?" Louis demands, after Harry has done nothing but stare at him. "Aren't you gonna come over here?"

Harry trips over his own feet, and Louis laughs at him, the sound bright in Harry's kitchen. He looks completely at home; like he's always belonged there, like he's always meant to be sitting on Harry's kitchen counter, laughing at him. Like _home_ ; if home was a person with blue eyes and caramel hair who likes to juggle Harry's fruits and perch on his kitchen counter.

Harry fits himself in between Louis' legs, his heart pounding in his chest. His vision is spinning--maybe from the hang-over, maybe from something else--but Louis grounds him, a still point in his otherwise-churning world. He's an anchor, one that Harry grabs on to gratefully, greedily.

Louis slips his hands around Harry's neck. "Rough night?" He asks, his eyes flitting from points on Harry's face.

Harry laughs. "You have no idea."

One of Louis' hands slide into Harry's hair, gripping a fistful of curls at the base of his neck. Harry moans quietly at the sensation, making Louis' lips quirk up. "You alright?" He asks.

Harry lifts his hands, rests them on Louis' thighs. "Good now, yeah," he says. Louis is blatantly staring at his lips, and he licks them slowly, watches as Louis' eyes darken with arousal. "You didn't text."

He's not supposed to be doing this. He's supposed to be getting over Louis.

But fuck if it's not hard to _stop_.

"Wanted it to be a surprise," Louis says, using his hands to pull Harry closer. "`Sides, you haven't been replying to me recently." He brushes his nose against Harry's, presses their foreheads together.

"I reply," Harry answers, affronted. He digs his fingers into the material of Louis' sweats, feeling the softness beneath his hands. "I always reply to you."

"You do," Louis allows. "But it's never the answer I want." His legs come around to encircle Harry's hips, his heels digging into Harry's back. "Want me to make you feel good?"

And Harry's about to say yes, about to lean in and seal their lips together, when there's a cough from behind him, making Louis freeze in his arms.

"Am I interrupting something?" Alex says amusedly, when Harry turns around to face him. His hair is wet, like he'd taken a shower, and he's wearing jeans and a lavender jumper. The _same_ lavender jumper, Harry realizes, that he's taken to leaving out for Louis to wear.

Harry's blood runs cold. He looks back at Louis, just in time to watch his face completely shut down.

Fuck.

"Alex," Harry says. "Um--"

"Don't worry about it, Harry," Alex interrupts, still smiling benevolently. "I'll get out of your hair in a bit. Just wanted to let you know that I'm headed out, and thank you for letting me stay the night. And I was wondering if I could borrow this? It was just left out randomly, so..." He trails off, pulls at the edge of the jumper. "I would've worn my shirt but it got wet when I used the bathroom."

 _No_. Harry wants to scream, wants to throw things and make a scene because _Alex can't wear that jumper_. It's _Louis_ ', the same way the right side of the bed is Louis', the same way that Mickey Mouse toothbrush in the bathroom is Louis'. It's Louis' and Alex has no right to even look at it, so much as _wear it_.

But he knows he can't make a scene, knows that it'd be stupid of him to complain about a jumper. Knows that if he did, Louis would know, immediately, the way Harry feels, and Harry doesn't know if he'll handle losing Louis this morning, on top of his hang-over.

Besides, he thinks, Louis probably doesn't even care about the jumper. Not as much as Harry does.

So he doesn't do anything but nod, doesn't do anything but watch as Alex bids him goodbye, slipping out of the kitchen with _Louis'_ lavender jumper stretched on his back. Doesn't do anything but listen as he grabs his jacket from the closet, as the front door opens and closes, silence ringing out in Harry's house.

Louis' eyes are unreadable when Harry turns back to look at him. Harry swallows thickly. "Lou--"

"I just remembered," Louis cuts Harry off, jumping off the counter in one swift movement. He avoids Harry's eyes, stalks past him. "I have something I need to do."

He makes his way back to the living room without so much as a glance back at Harry. Harry trails after him uselessly, completely at a loss.

"Louis," He says, and if his voice sounds desperate but he doesn't care. Not anymore. "Please don't leave."

Louis shakes his head, picking up his shoes. He doesn't even bother to sit down and put them on, just tucks them under his arm and makes his way to the door. "Can't," he says, shaking his head. He doesn't even bother to look at Harry. "It's, uh, urgent. Really urgent. Like, life-threateningly urgent." He yanks the front door open and steps out. "I'll see you around, okay?"

Harry follows him to the door. " _Louis_ ," he says, and Louis must hear something in his voice, because he stops, his shoulders slumping. He turns around, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Yes, Harry?"

 _Don't leave_ , is at the tip of Harry's tongue _, I'm sorry_ , right behind it. And at the back of his throat, crawling up painfully, _I love you_.

Harry doesn't say any of those things.

"We're okay, right?" He asks, and his voice sounds meek, sad, even to his own ears. He doesn't know if Louis hears past those three words, doesn't know if he hears what Harry's trying to say, but Louis' eyes soften just a little bit.

Louis reaches up, cups a hand around Harry's cheek. "Yeah," he says, and when he smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes. Harry thinks his smile looks like a goodbye. "Yeah, we're fine."

He doesn't kiss Harry, just turns and walks to his car, completely barefoot. Harry watches him leave, his heart sinking in his chest.

He only closes the door when Louis' car disappears from sight.

. . .

  

 

** **

**To: Louis**  
Lou.

 **To: Louis**  
Come over?

 **To: Louis**  
Please?

 **From: Louis**  
Can't, sorry !  Busy today !

. . .

Harry takes it back. Being in love with someone who won't ever love you back _isn't_ the worst feeling in the world.

It's this, this, strange limbo that Harry's currently in. It's sending a dozen texts, hoping, praying for a response, only to receive one word answers. It's inviting Louis to come over, only to be blown off with responses like _I'm busy_ , or _I have a headache_ , the same excuses Harry had used on Louis weeks before. It's asking him _can we talk?_ only for his message to go ignored.

It's being avoided, blown off and ignored by the one person you love. That's the worst feeling in the world.

It's stupid. Harry knows that this was what he wanted--he wanted Louis to pull away, so that Harry could get over him in peace; wanted Louis to stop coming over so he could get over his heartbreak. He wanted this, a few weeks ago, some peace and quiet, but he hadn't known back then how much it would _hurt_.

But Harry can't stop replaying Louis' expression, the way his face just completely fell after seeing Alex in the lavender jumper. Can't stop replaying the way Louis had shouldered past him, all false-bravado and poorly concealed hurt, the way he'd tucked his shoes under his arms and quite literally ran away from Harry. Even if he wanted it back then, he hadn't wanted it like _this_. He had never wanted to hurt Louis.

He ends up in even more of a slump, hardly ever leaving his bed unless he's got work commitments or he's forced to work out. Liam becomes even more of a mother hen, fussing over him and randomly calling him during the day just to check up on him. He comes over as well, tries to cook Harry some of his favourite foods--he doesn't give Harry anymore tequila, but that's alright. Harry's tired of drinking when sad.

Even his team seems to notice that something is amiss--Lou, who's usually loud with Harry, is achingly tender, her hands in his hair even gentler than they were before. Caroline, his stylist, sends over all the shirts she knows Harry would love, with sweet little notes scribbled on the boxes. Even Mark, his trainer, looks at him worriedly, like he thinks Harry's going to randomly stop boxing and punch himself in the face.

Harry hates it.

It's a few weeks later when Liam calls him up, tells him to _get out of bed, you have a dinner to attend_. Harry tries to argue but Liam's having none of it, even going so far as to threaten going there just to dress Harry himself. In the end, Harry gives in reluctantly, and gets ready--picking out the prettiest shirt from the last box Caroline sent over and dabbing himself with a bit of cologne.

The dinner is to be held at a small, upscale restaurant, somewhere in the heart of London. It isn't a quiet affair; there's going to be around twelve guests, and dozens of paps waiting to photograph them. Harry knows this, but he still can't help but feel a bit annoyed when he has to walk in front of them to get into the restaurant.  

But it's easier once he gets inside. He congratulates James--he's a good friend, after all, and he deserves all the success he's been getting with his late night show in America. He ends up sitting next to Nick Grimshaw, whom he hasn't seen in _months_ ; the two of them immediately start catching up, trying to update each other as to what's been happening in their lives.

And Harry's starting to think that he might be okay, at least, just for tonight, when suddenly, James stands from his chair, excitement radiating from his every move.

"You bastard," he says affectionately, pushing away from the table. "You told me you weren't coming!"

"Change of plans," a familiar voice replies, and Harry freezes, feels his stomach drop to the floor. He realizes, belatedly, that _of course_   he'd be here; Louis had told him that James was one of his closest friends, and that he was a bit sad to hear that he'd be moving to America.

"Louis' here!" James exclaims, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room. Harry takes a deep breath to steel himself, pastes on a semi-happy expression, and turns around just in time to see Louis wave at everyone at the table.

He looks. Well, he looks _tired_. No less beautiful than before, of course, but he looks exhausted, his hair messy and his skin a little sallower than Harry remembers. The bags under his eyes are more prominent, a darker colour, and his eyes are faintly red, like he hasn't been sleeping well at all.

Harry watches as Louis' eyes flit through everyone on the table, offering them each a small smile. When they land on Harry, his mouth quirks up; it looks practiced, forced. Harry swallows, sends him a weak smile back.

Louis ends up sitting two people away from Harry, and despite the distance, Harry is acutely aware of his presence; acutely aware of every time he reaches for the pepper or takes a sip of his water. He's aware of every move Louis makes, like there's a part of his brain hardwired to Louis'.

They don't talk to each other, though, manage to avoid speaking directly to each other until halfway through the meal, when James leans forward to catch their attention.

"Oh, by the way, Harry," he says. "I forgot to congratulate you and Louis! The advert was just stunning, really." He grins excitedly. "You two make such a cute couple."

"Thank you," Harry replies, trying not to look in Louis' direction. Harry knows he's listening--knows that he stopped talking to Cara when he'd heard his name mentioned. "We didn't really know it would turn out like that, but." He shrugs, and hopes James drops the topic.

Nick jumps in."Oh yeah, but the pictures!" he says, and at this Harry sneaks a glance at Louis. He's looking at James, completely stoic, only the subtle clench of his jaw giving him away. "The ones of you holding hands and having lunch and stuff. Proper adorable."

"Thank you," Harry says again, wearily this time.

"If you don't mind me asking," James takes over, his eyes darting from Louis to Harry. There's a curious look in his eye. "Are you two together?"

The question catches Harry off-guard, and he turns to look at Louis. The question must've startled Louis as well, because his eyes are wide, staring at James. Harry watches him, watches as his jaw tightens even further, watches as he averts his eyes and looks down on his plate.

He opens his mouth--to say something vague, maybe, he doesn't really know--but Louis beats him to it. "No," he says, looking back up at James. His expression is unreadable. "We're not together." He smirks then, and it looks painful. "We're just good mates."

"I--" Harry falters, looks away. He grips the napkin on his lap tightly with a hand, wishing he were anywhere else. Wishing that he could stop hurting, stop fucking _caring_. "Yeah."

. . .

Louis catches him in the bathroom a little later, right before they have to leave. He looks small, sad, his shoulders hunched over in a shirt that's just a little bit too big for him, and Harry's heart aches at the sight. He wants, no, _needs_ Louis closer--needs him as close as he can physically be.

It's a quiet feeling of need, this--the one that creeps up on you silently, stealthily, rising and rising until it completely bowls you over. Harry aches to touch him, to feel him all over. He wants to make him moan, make him whimper and whine and come hard, but he wants more to gather him up in his arms and hold him, press kisses into every part of Louis he can, wants more to feel how warm Louis is, how solid; wants to listen to Louis' heartbeat, steady and calming.

He wants Louis every way he can have him--sexually, platonically, romantically--but currently, it's looking like Louis doesn't want him at all.

"I want to end it," Louis says quietly, looking at a point over Harry's shoulder.

And Harry had been expecting that--had been expecting that for _weeks_ , if he's being honest--but hearing the words still feels like a punch to the gut. "What?"

"I want to end it," Louis repeats, sounding firmer this time. He still doesn't look at Harry. "This. Us. Our arrangement. I'm calling it off."

"Why?" Harry digs his fingernails into his palm, tries to swallow the pain. He doesn't want to break, not in front of Louis.

Louis shrugs. "Do I need a reason?" He asks, and Harry has to force himself not to flinch at the easy way Louis answers. At the way he acts like it doesn't matter.

 Because it matters. It fucking _matters_ to Harry.

"Please," He whispers sadly. "Please, Lou, just--"

"I found someone," Louis interrupts, bowing his head, looking down at the floor. Harry can't see his expression at all. "I found someone that I actually, um, _love_ , I guess--" he breaks off, chuckles bitterly, "--doesn't matter. I just want to stop doing this."

"Oh," Harry says dumbly. Louis' every word feels like a knife to the chest, mangling what's left of Harry's heart. _He loves someone_ , his brain seems to scream. _Someone that isn't you_.

He thinks it's ironic; he's wanted Louis' attention for weeks, and now that he finally has it, the words coming out of his mouth aren't the ones Harry wants to hear.

"Yeah," Louis says awkwardly. "I mean, we agreed, in the ground rules--"

"No, no," Harry has to force every word past the lump in his throat. "I get it. I, um, I hope he's great."

Louis looks up at him, eyes blazing. "Yeah," he says, and there's something in his voice, something that Harry can't place. "Yeah, he's great."

He pastes on a smile. "I, um, I'm glad. For you, I mean."

"Thank you," Louis answers quietly. "You're, uh, free now, I guess."  He suddenly seems to hunch in even more, and even though Louis is here, standing a foot away from Harry in the dimly-lit bathroom in one of London's most upscale restaurants, it feels like he's light years away, separated by galaxies and universes and star systems that Harry can't cross, that his arms aren't long enough to stretch over.

"I guess," Harry echoes hollowly. "That's it for us, then?"

Louis doesn't answer him for a while, just watches Harry carefully, his blue eyes sad. "You're a good friend," he says, eventually, his voice soft, gentle. It sounds like a hundred different things--like a sorry and a thank you and a goodbye, all condensed into those four words.

"I know," he replies, just as softly, tries to fit all the things he's left unsaid, into those two words. "You too." He tries to memorize the long sweep of Louis' eyelashes, the way his hair falls across his forehead. The way the light reflects in his blue eyes, cut like stained glass.

It's only when Harry feels like years have passed, like centuries and eternities have come and gone, does he turn around and leave the bathroom.

(It still isn't enough.)

. . .

And then life goes on.

Harry allows himself a week to wallow, a week to curl up in his bed, but after that he forces himself out of bed, forces himself to smile like his heart isn't broken, shattered into a hundred thousand pieces that Harry doesn't know if he can still repair. Forces himself to attend photo shoots and work events and fittings and gym sessions, forces himself to live his life the way he used to, before Louis.

(Before pancakes and sunlight and mornings tinged with gold, lined with silver. Before cherry-wine kisses and gentle touches; before pap walks and breakfast dates and lunch dates. Before hand-holding and cuddling as zombies get their heads blown off, before shared concerts and meeting at parties and lots of teasing.

Before sex that had turned into so much more, before adverts that went viral. Before photo shoots and dressing room blowjobs and flying shoes and angels.

Before Harry had given his heart so fully to Louis, and watched as it splintered into many different pieces.)

His team is still ridiculously gentle with him, fussing over him and trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Lou has taken to bringing her baby Lux onto shoots, so Harry can distract himself by playing with her. Caroline brings her baby Brooklyn as well, and Harry spends time in his dressing room, playing with them, enjoying their company. He even lets Lux and Brooklyn braid his hair, and the result is something that Lou sort of freaks out about, but it's okay. They make him feel better, at least for a little while.

He sees Zayn at a party, a few weeks later. He's laughing with two people Harry doesn't know, but stops when he catches sight of Harry.

Immediately, Harry knows he's _mad_ ; his expression is stoic, but there's an anger in his eyes, one Harry can see from a few metres away. Harry doesn't know why, doesn't _understand_ why--it was Louis who ended the arrangement after all, not him. Louis had been the one to cut off all ties with him, had been the one to end everything between them.

But he still smiles at Zayn as best as he can. There's a moment where Zayn's face doesn't change, still staring expressionless at Harry, then his mouth is quirking up sadly.

 _Sorry_ , his smile seems to say. It only lasts a moment before Zayn is turning back to the people he's talking with, laughing at something one of them said.

. . .

Liam worries even more, because of course he does.

He starts fussing over Harry even more now, checking up on him even more. Sometimes, he gazes at Harry so sadly, looking like a kicked puppy. Sometimes he'll pull Harry into random hugs and whisper reassuring things in his ear. Sometimes he just likes to barge into Harry's house, keep him company as Harry cooks, or cleans, or watches telly.

It's a bit annoying, but mostly, Harry is grateful for his company. It's still too hard, when he's alone--being alone means having to think, and thinking reminds him of what happened--but it's much easier when he's with Liam. Liam's his best friend, before anything else, and Harry is glad for that.

"Hey, H," Liam says, once, when Harry's cooking them both dinner. He's seated at the table properly, quietly, watching as Harry moves around the kitchen.

Harry tries not to think about someone else, someone who liked to perch on the kitchen counter and distract Harry as he cooked. "Yeah, Li?"

"You'll be okay, you know that?" Liam says, and his words make Harry pause, make him turn around to meet Liam's gaze. Liam's eyes are sad, comforting, like he understands what Harry's going through.

And it dawns on Harry that maybe he does. After all, he had witnessed firsthand how heartbroken Liam was, when Sophia, his fiancée at the time had broken up with him, claiming that she couldn't marry Liam when he was married to his work. He was there when Liam broke down for the first time, after two weeks of forced smiles and non-stop working. He was there when Liam had picked himself up, dusted himself off and moved on, his smiles becoming much lighter and his laughs coming much easier.

It might not have been the exact same situation, but Liam understands how it feels to love someone and get your heart broken for your troubles.

Harry feels a surge of fondness for his best friend. "Yeah," he says, shooting Liam a small smile. "I do."

. . .

He googles Louis, once.

It's a mistake. There are a dozen pap pictures of him, completely barefoot, dressed in a gorgeous denim jacket and tight jeans. He's on the phone, laughing at something someone on the other line said, and the happy expression on his face is like a face full of ice cold water.

 _He's not even torn up about it_ , Harry thinks, as he scrolls through the inane article. _He doesn't even care_.

It's agonizing, the fact that here's Harry, incredibly torn up about losing his fuck buddy, and there's Louis, going around looking well-rested and _happy_. Here's Harry, who's pathetic enough to spend the night googling Louis, and there's Louis, walking to Starbucks, looking carefree and relaxed. Here's Harry, who's so in love with him and trying not to be, and there's Louis, who just. Doesn't care.

He's probably talking to that person he's in love with.

Harry shuts his laptop, flops down on his bed. He tries not to picture it, tries not to picture someone else kissing Louis on the mouth every morning, tries not to picture Louis perching on someone else's counter, distracting them as they make breakfast. Tries not to picture Louis curled up on the couch with someone who isn't Harry, watching _The Walking Dead_. Tries not to picture Louis smiling at them, his gaze warm, fond, the way he used to look at Harry.

He groans, shaking his head and clearing his thoughts. He lies on his right, curling into himself, and waits--waits for the warmth of someone fitting themselves into his back, throwing their arms around him. Waits for the feeling of someone nosing into his hair, pressing a soft kiss onto Harry's nape. Waits for the feeling of a leg slotted between Harry's.

It doesn't come.

(In the morning, he sends a text. Nothing much, just a simple, _hey, hope you're well_.

Louis doesn't reply.)

. . .

It's not easy--most days, his chest still aches with the pain, a reminder that his heart is still beating, but just barely. Most days he's quiet, staring forlornly out the window, as he gets ready for another shoot or waits for Liam's instructions at a fitting. Most days, all he wants to do is lie down and go to sleep, so he doesn't feel the pain.

But he's getting there, he thinks. Harry isn't good yet, and he doesn't think he will be just yet, but. He's getting there.

. . .

He finds the lavender jumper two months later, behind the couch cushions.

It's hidden innocuously enough, only a tiny portion of the sleeve peeking out. Harry has a vague memory of stuffing it there when Alex had brought it back a few weeks ago, too sad to look at it for much longer than necessary. It had reminded him too much of Louis, of how he just _fit_ in Harry's home, like he was always meant to be there.

He pulls it out now, smoothing the wrinkles with his hand. Looking at it makes his chest clench--mostly because he can't _not_ see Louis, can't not see him in the soft material of the jumper, can't not see him in the pale, lavender colour of it.

Technically, it's Harry's jumper--he did buy it, after all--but Louis is so closely intertwined with it that it's also _his,_ in a way. It's Harry and Louis' jumper. The same way the bed is Harry and Louis' bed, the same way the kitchen is Harry and Louis' kitchen. And it's a painful thought, the fact that most everything in this house isn't just Harry's anymore, but Harry and Louis', as if they're one entity, as if they share-- _shared_ \--a life together.

Because Louis' presence is undeniable--the small frays of the jumper that weren't there all those months ago, the Mickey Mouse toothbrush that Harry doesn't have the heart to throw away testament to this. Even the simple fact that Harry doesn't sprawl across the king-sized bed when he sleeps anymore; instead, he sleeps curled up, on the left side of the bed, like he's waiting for someone to fit against his back, curl around him.

Louis has seamlessly fit himself into the empty crevices of Harry's life, filled it with light and happiness, and _Harry's so in love with him but Louis doesn't love him back_.

And it's painful, it is, but what's more painful is that Louis came and inexplicably _owned_ every facet of Harry's home, even Harry himself, and now he's gone, and Harry can't even look at a fucking pillow without being reminded of Louis.

He lifts it up, presses his nose to the soft material. It smells freshly washed--like a mixture of detergent and fabric softener--but it's _all wrong_. It doesn't smell like Louis at all.

And logically, Harry knows it shouldn't. It's been two months, after all, and even longer since he last wore the jumper. But it just smells so _wrong_ and there's something in Harry's brain, something that screams at him to _fix this_ , to make this jumper smell like Louis again. 

Which is why he jumps up from the couch, puts on his shoes, and runs.

He doesn't stop running, not until he's standing outside Louis' house, out of breath and exhausted. He leans on the doorbell, gripping the jumper tightly--it's gained a few more wrinkles from Harry's sprint here, but it doesn't matter. Harry doesn't think anything matters anymore.

It feels like centuries have passed before Louis is yanking open the door, looking grumpy and annoyed and _exactly_ how Harry remembers. His expression drops the instant he sees Harry, and Harry pushes himself off the doorbell, and in a fit of courage, shoves the jumper into Louis' chest.

"Here," he says, still panting. He's sweaty and he probably smells but he doesn't care. "For you."

 Louis' hands come up to catch the jumper. "What?"

"For you," Harry repeats. He gestures to Louis, to the jumper he's holding against his chest. "The jumper."

Louis' eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "No," he says, slowly, pushing it back towards Harry. "It's _yours_."

Harry shakes his head emphatically. "I don't want it anymore."

Louis looks even more incredulous at that. "You...don't want it anymore," he repeats, still holding the jumper out. "Are you cleaning out your closet or something?"

"No," Harry says again, and the expression Louis' face makes makes the bravado seep out of his pores. He feels stupid, empty--like he'd been pumped full of air and left to deflate. He hadn't thought this through properly. "I just don't want it anymore. I just--" he breaks off, shakes his head, and turns to leave. "I'm sorry. I'll just go. See you, Louis."

He's taken two steps down Louis' porch when Louis speaks up again. "Don't," he says, quietly, but Harry hears him clearly. Harry turns around to look at him, finds Louis still standing at the door, clutching the jumper to his chest. His blue eyes are sad, filled with so much emotion, and he's looking at Harry like--

Like he's begging Harry to stay.

"Don't go," Louis says, a bit louder this time. "Please."

"I--" Harry swallows, shuts his eyes. Knows that he can't deny Louis of anything, especially not when he's looking at Harry like that. "Okay."

They settle on opposite ends of Louis' couch, and Harry watches as Louis touches the soft material of the jumper, as he tugs on the frays at the sleeves. He's not looking at Harry, but Harry can tell he's waiting for an explanation, waiting to hear why Harry showed up at his house unannounced and thrust the jumper into his face.

Harry leans forward, his eyes fixed on Louis. He can feel all the words he'd left unsaid at the back of his tongue, growing larger and louder until Harry can't hold them in anymore.

"I fucked up," is what he starts with, so very eloquently.

Louis doesn't look up at him, but his hands still in their movement. He doesn't say anything.

"I fucked up," Harry repeats again, and this time his voice breaks. Every single part of him is breaking, he thinks distantly, crumbling in front of Louis like glass shattering into a million pieces. "I don't know where to start."

 Louis lifts his head, meets Harry's gaze. His eyes are curious, comforting, and yet a little bit sad--like he thinks what Harry's going to say will break his heart. "Start with why you showed up at my house and gave me this jumper."

Harry takes a deep breath. "It doesn't smell like you," he says, as honest as he can. Might as well just give it all away. He's got nothing to lose, after all.

Louis tenses, probably in shock, but Harry just plunges on. "I just, I want it to smell like you, but it _doesn't_ , Louis. Nothing in my house smells like you. Not anymore." He shakes his head, feels the tears welling up in his eyes. "It's stupid, I know. I'm pathetic. But it's so hard, especially when I look around my own home--" he wipes the tears from his eyes, forces himself not to sob "--and I see you everywhere, but _nothing fucking smells like you_."

He shuts his eyes. "I see you in my house, Lou--I see you sleeping in my bed or eating breakfast in my kitchen or taking a shower in my bathroom, but then you're _not there_ and it hurts." He shakes his head, looks down at his lap. "I see you in my life, Louis, now and in the future, and I fucked up, because we agreed--" he laughs drily, "--no strings attached, remember?"

"I remember," Louis says quietly. Harry doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to know what he'll find in Louis' face.

"And I went and got attached," he sniffles, wipes the tears with the back of his hand. He's fucking pathetic, but he can't stop crying. "Somewhere along the way, I started thinking less and less about having sex with you, and more and more about waking up next to you. Somewhere along the way I started thinking of you as mine, and me as yours." He keeps his eyes trained on his knees, focuses on the little thread that's sticking up from his jeans. "Somewhere along the way, I fell head over heels, arse over tea kettle in love with you, and the thing is, you don't love me back. So, that's why," he finishes, his words drying up in his mouth, "that's why I'm here."

It's silent, terrifyingly so. Harry waits with bated breath, his heart jack-rabbiting in his ears. He feels a bit queasy, from crying and from everything he's said, but it's out there now. There's no way he can take it back.

Finally, he hears a soft sigh. "Harry," Louis says, and his voice is gentle. Harry shuts his eyes, gets ready to be let down easy. "How in the world did you ever end up thinking that I wasn't in love with you too?"

Harry's eyes fly open. "But you said," he stammers, lifting his head to look at Louis. Louis' watching him carefully, but there's a small quirk to his lips, one that makes hope bloom in Harry's chest. "In the restaurant. You said, you fell in love with someone."

"Yeah," Louis agrees. "With you."  The 'duh' is obvious in his tone, and Harry would probably take offence to that if he wasn't currently reeling from Louis' revelation.

"But you called me a good friend," Harry says dumbly, still staring at Louis, wide-eyed. He doesn't want to blink; he's afraid that if he does, this will all turn out to be a dream his sad, heartbroken mind conjured up. "That time, when we had sex and I kissed you--you told me I was a good friend."

Louis' expression drops. "I didn't know yet," he says, his voice filled with emotion Harry can't place. "I hadn't realized that I loved you until that time you kept blowing me off. That's why I went to your house ridiculously early the next day. I had to tell you how I felt." He worries on his bottom lip. "And then..."

He trails off, but Harry already knows what he means. _And then Alex_.

"That's why I ended it," Louis continues, taking a deep breath. "I was in love with you and I was going to tell you, but there you were, going around and fucking other people that wasn't me." He smiles bitterly. "I didn't think it was healthy to keep clinging on to you like that."

"I didn't fuck him," Harry clarifies immediately, because he has to. Louis needs to know that Harry can't even _look_ at another person when he has Louis. "I went to a party to try and get over you, and then I got drunk. He took care of me and brought me home." He looks down at his hands. "And I was incredibly lonely and it was late, so I asked him to stay. But I didn't fuck him. I couldn't." He laughs drily, looking up to meet Louis' gaze. "He wasn't you. Nobody else was you. Turns out, that's a huge problem for me."

That makes the corner of Louis' mouth twitch up. "It is, huh?"

"It is," Harry confirms. He feels a burst of courage, enough to scoot closer to Louis on the couch, to  press their knees together. "I don't want anyone else when they're not you." He reaches out, tangles his hand with Louis' nervously. Louis looks at their joined hands, but he doesn't pull his hand away, and that makes Harry's heart beat faster in his chest.  "I realized this that one time you were shit-talking my pancakes," he says, thinking of syrup and sunlight and _Louis, always Louis_. His soft, sleep-worn edges, tinged with gold; his hair, still messy from sleep. "But I'm pretty sure I loved you way before that."

"You like it when people shit-talk your pancakes then?" The teasing lilt in Louis' voice makes giddiness bubble up Harry's stomach, and he has to fight down his growing smile.

"No," he answers honestly. "I just like you."

Louis is quiet for a few minutes, looking contemplatively at Harry. There's a warmth in his eyes, one that Harry recognizes from the time they spent together, from whenever Harry would make breakfast or whenever they'd watch _The Walking Dead_ cuddled up next to each other.

And _God_ , how had Harry not noticed?

"We're idiots," Louis says, and the dry way he says it makes Harry bark out a weird-sounding laugh. Louis looks at him, shocked at the noise, and Harry uses his free hand to cover his mouth.

"Sorry," Harry says, slightly embarrassed. His words come out muffled. "I've never made that noise before."

Louis blinks at him, before he's shaking his head. "God," he mutters. "You're a dork."

 "You love me," Harry shoots back, feeling like light, airy, _happy_. He doesn't think he'll get tired of watching the way Louis' face lights up, a bright grin spreading across his face, his eyes crinkling in the way Harry loves.

"I do," Louis answers easily. He meets Harry's gaze--his eyes are light, happy. "I really, really do."

Harry's heart soars at the words, fluttering in his chest cavity. He's warm all over, like his blood has been replaced with drops of golden sunlight, spreading through his limbs, lighting up even the darkest corners of his body.

He leans forward, feeling light as air, and brushes their noses together. "Lou," he murmurs into the space between their mouths, his eyes trained on Louis' lips. He _wants_ , so bad--has wanted it for so long and now it's there, just within his reach. "Please say I can kiss you."

Louis' smile grows. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

The first touch of their lips has Harry's spine tingling, goose bumps erupting on his arm. He's wanted this for so long, ever since he'd kissed Louis that one time, and he finally, _finally_ gets to have it, gets to taste Louis over and over.

 Louis makes a gentle noise into his mouth, winding his hands around Harry's neck and pulling him closer. Harry kisses him with as much emotion as he can muster--tries to infuse all the hurt and longing and happiness and _love_ he feels for Louis. He hopes Louis understands.

When they break apart, Louis keeps his eyes shut, rests his forehead against Harry's. Harry stares at the sweep of his eyelashes for so long he gets dizzy.

"I'm in love with you, Louis Tomlinson," he says, leaning forward to punctuate that statement with a kiss. "So, so, so in love with you."

Louis hums, but his smile grows. "You're insane, Harry Styles," he answers, and it Harry chuckles, suddenly remembering the conversation they had, when they were watching _The Walking Dead_ , Louis curled up in his chest. "But I'm in love with you too."

Harry kisses him again, just because he can, moves his other hand up Louis' shirt and fits it in between the dips of Louis' ribs. He still can't believe this is real, still can't believe that the boy he's horribly in love with is _in love with him too_. He really is the protagonist of a cliché Hollywood film.

And yet, he can't complain, not when Louis pushes him down on the couch, his smile a touch dirty. Definitely not when Louis straddles him, kisses him with so much heat and passion that it leaves Harry gasping for air afterwards. And _especially_ not when Louis grinds down on him, his cock already half-hard, both of them already planning to make up for lost time.

It _is_ a happy ending, after all.

. . .

Having a model boyfriend has its perks.

For one, his boyfriend is stunning. Like just physically stunning; with rugged good-looks that makes everyone trip over their own feet when they catch sight of him, makes every want to drop to their knees and suck his dick when he wants it.

(Okay, fine. Not everyone. Maybe just Harry. He's ridiculously clumsy, and he _is_ ready and willing to go down on Louis at any time. )

Two, he keeps fit. Harry has lost track of how many times Louis has fucked him against the wall, his biceps bulging as he holds Harry up. Louis' got the most gorgeous set of biceps that Harry drools over on a near daily basis, and he's so fucking _strong_ and wall sex might just be the hottest, most erotic sex ever invented. He's an advocate for wall sex.

And three, Harry gets to ogle him in various states of undress _all_ the time.

"Babe," Louis exhales, clearly frustrated. "Stop looking at me and look at the fucking _camera_."

Harry doesn't tear his eyes away from the dips of Louis' abs. "But how do you expect me to do that when you're walking around looking like this?"

Harry literally _hears_ Louis roll his eyes. "It's nothing you haven't seen before," Louis replies, sounding exasperated and bashful at the same time. He's so cute. Harry loves him so much. "Come on, Harry, you're making poor Girolle cry."

Harry looks up to where Girolle is, finds him scrolling through the pictures in his camera looking much more distressed than when Harry last saw him five minutes ago. "Fine," Harry sighs. He turns to look at Louis, resolutely forces his eyes not to wander down to Louis' abs, to where his underwear sits, low on his hips. Even though all Harry wants is to stand and ogle him some more, Louis has a point. They need to get this shoot done.

Besides, Harry doesn't really want to pop a boner right now. His underwear is a bit tight--apparently, someone (Liam) had forwarded Harry's complaints about the fit of his bum in the previous shoot, so they'd ended up providing underwear that's a size smaller. Fits nicely on the arse, but now his dick is practically hanging out. Harry's sure if he gets even just a bit hard, it'd look even more obscene.

"Alright," Louis claps, getting everyone's attention. He's directing the shoot again, and Harry can't help but feel proud for his ruggedly-stunning, multi-talented boyfriend. He really lucked out in that department. "Girolle, where do you want to take the picture from?"

"Here," Girolle answers, standing just a bit left from centre. Louis squints at it, cocks his head and nods.

"Alright," he says. "Babe, can you face Girolle just a little bit?" Harry does as he's told, keeping his profile to the camera. "Perfect. Now, I'm going to be over there." Louis points a bit further, to the corner of the set.

Harry pouts at him. "You're so far."

Louis rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching. "Re _lax_ , limpet," he says. "I'm going to run to you from there, and you're going to catch me, alright? And Girolle," he says, raising his voice to be heard. "You're going to take a series of burst shots."

"Okay," Girolle answers back, already fiddling with the settings on his camera.

Louis backs away to his assigned corner, his eyes glued on Harry. "Ready?" He asks.

Harry just opens his arms wide. "Come to me."

Louis laughs, but stays still--he doesn't move until Girolle says _go_ , until the sound of the camera shutter starts up. He runs towards Harry, gathering momentum, before he leaps; Harry catches him easily, of course he does, holds him up with his hands under his thighs, while Louis' arms wrap around his neck, his feet coming up around Harry's hips. Louis' smile is devastating--bright, gorgeous, and infectious, and Harry feels himself grin dopily in response.

"Hi," he says.

Louis brushes his nose against Harry's. "Hey, babe," he says, before leaning down and kissing him.

(A month later, Harry and Louis finds out that Girolle had taken a picture of their kiss too. The photo makes them both laugh from where they're curled up, in their bed, and Harry plucks the phone out of Louis' hand, shifts until he's hovering above Louis.

"Hey," he grins, nuzzling his nose against Louis. Louis grins back at him, the look in his eyes one that Harry never gets tired of seeing--full of warmth and happiness and _love_. "Wanna celebrate?"

Louis huffs, his mouth twitching. "Honestly Harry, will you ever let me live that down?"

"Nope," Harry says, popping the 'p'. "So come on, do you?"

Louis rolls his eyes. "No," he says, but he pulls Harry down for a kiss anyway.

After all, it's the thing to do when you've just released a new advert .)

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from 'more than friends' by gabrielle alpin
> 
>  
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://missandrogyny.tumblr.com)!


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